$>  "' 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 


For  God's  sake  give  me  suthin'  to  eat. 


THE  GIRL  FROM 
1    TIM'S  PLACE 


BY 

CHARLES  CLARK   MUNN 

AUTHOR  OF  "POCKET  ISLAND,"  "UNCLE  TERRY,"  "THE 
HERMIT,"  "ROCKHAVEN." 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  FRANK  T.  MERRILL 


NEW  YORK 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Published,  March,  1906. 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
LOTHROP,  LEE  &  SHEPARD  CCX 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE. 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  we  leave  the  world's  busy  haunts  and 
penetrate  the  primal  solitude  of  a  vast  wilderness, 
a  new  realm  peopled  by  mystic  genii  opens  to  us. 
Each  sombre  gorge,  where  twisted  roots  clasp  the 
moss-coated  walls,  discloses  fabled  gnomes  and 
dryads.  Nymphs  and  naiads  outline  their  shad- 
owy forms  in  the  mist  of  every  cascade.  Elfin 
sprites  dance  in  the  ripples  of  a  laughing  brook, 
and  brownies  scamper  away  over  the  leaf-swept 
hilltops. 

A  wondrous  Presence,  multiform,  omnipresent, 
and  ever  fascinating,  meets  us  on  every  hand,  and 
there  in  those  magic  aisles  and  sombre  glades, 
where  man  seems  far  away  and  God  very  near, 
Nature  sits  enthroned. 

It  is  with  the  hope  that  a  few  of  my  readers 
may  feel  this  forest-born  mood,  and  in  its  poetic 
spirit  forget  worldly  cares,  that  I  have  written  the 
story  of  "The  Girl  from  Tim's  Place." 

THE   AUTHOR. 


2137300 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  For  God's  sake  give  me  suthin'  to  eat  "     {Frontispiece)      »  23 

All  the  goblin  forms  and  hideous  shapes  of  Old  Tomah's 

fancy  were  rushing  and  leaping  about     ....  21 

Nearer  and  nearer  that  unconscious  girl  it  crept !  .        .        .123 

He  grasped  and  struck  at  this  enemy  in  a  blind  instinct 

of  self-preservation 195 

"  Won't  you  please  give  me  a  lift  an'  a  chance  to  earn  my 

vittles  for  a  day  or  two?  " 260 

"  Thank  God,  little  gal,  I've  found  what  belongs  to  ye  "         .  272 

"  Quit  takin'  on  so,  girlie,"  he  said 325 

"  I  did  mean  to  hate  you,  but  I  —  I  can't "   .       •        .       .  416 


PART   I 
CHIP   MCGUIRE 


CHAPTER  I 

CHIP  was  very  tired.  All  that  long  June  day, 
since  Tim's  harsh,  "Come,  out  wid  ye,"  had  roused 
her  to  daily  toil,  until  now,  wearied  and  disconso- 
late, she  had  crept,  barefoot,  up  the  back  stairs  to 
her  room,  not  one  moment's  rest  or  one  kindly 
word  had  been  hers. 

Below,  in  the  one  living  room  of  Tim's  Place, 
the  men  were  grouped  playing  cards,  and  the  med- 
ley of  their  oaths,  their  laughter,  the  thump  of 
knuckles  on  the  bare  table,  and  the  pungent  odor 
of  pipes,  reached  her  through  the  floor  cracks. 
Outside  the  fireflies  twinkled  above  the  slow-run- 
ning river  and  along  the  stump-dotted  hillside. 
Close  by,  a  few  pigs  dozed  contentedly  in  their 
rudely  constructed  sty. 

A  servant  to  those  scarce  fit  for  servants,  a  menial 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  all  Tim's  Place,  and  labor- 
ing with  the  men  in  the  fields,  Chip,  a  girl  of  almost 
sixteen,  felt  her  soul  revolt  at  the  filth,  the  brutality, 
the  coarse  existence  of  those  whose  slave  she  was. 

And  what  a  group  they  were ! 
9 


10  THE  GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

First,  Tim  Connor,  the  owner  and  master  of  this 
oasis  in  the  wilderness,  sixty  miles  from  the  nearest 
settlement ;  his  brother  Mike,  as  coarse ;  their 
wives  and  a  half  a  dozen  children  who  played  with 
the  pigs,  squealed  as  often  for  food,  and  were  left 
to  grow  up  the  same  way ;  and  Pierre  Lubec,  the 
hired  man,  completed  the  score. 

There  was  another  transient  resident  here,  an 
old  Indian  named  Tomah,  who  came  with  the  snow, 
and  deserted  his  hut  below  on  the  river  bank  when 
spring  unlocked  that  stream. 

Two  occasional  visitors  also  came  here,  both 
even  more  objectionable  to  Chip  than  Tim  and  his 
family.  One  was  her  father,  known  to  her  to  be 
an  outlaw  and  escaped  murderer  in  hiding  ;  the 
other  a  half-breed  named  Bolduc,  but  known  as  One- 
eyed  Pete,  a  trapper  and  hunter  whose  abode  was  a 
log  cabin  on  the  Fox  Hole,  ten  miles  away.  His 
face  was  horribly  scarred  by  a  wildcat's  claws; 
one  eye-socket  was  empty;  his  lips,  chin,  and  pro- 
truding teeth  were  always  tobacco-stained.  For 
three  months  now,  he  had  made  weekly  calls  at 
Tim's  Place,  in  pursuit  of  Chip.  His  wooing,  as 
might  be  expected,  had  been  a  persistent  leering  at 
her  with  his  one  sinister  eye,  oft-repeated  innuendoes 
and  insinuations  of  lascivious  nature,  scarce  under- 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  II 

stood  by  her,  with  now  and  then  attempted  famil- 
iarity. These  advances  had  met  with  much  the 
same  reception  once  accorded  him  by  the  wildcat. 

Both  these  visitors  were  now  with  the  group 
below.  That  fact  was  of  no  interest  to  Chip,  ex- 
cept in  connection  with  a  more  pertinent  one  —  a 
long  conference  she  had  observed  between  them 
that  day.  What  it  was  about,  she  could  not  guess, 
and  yet  some  queer  intuition  told  her  that  it  con- 
cerned her.  Ordinarily,  she  would  have  sought 
sleep  in  her  box-on- legs  bed;  now  she  crouched  on 
the  floor,  listening. 

For  an  hour  the  game  and  its  medley  of  sounds 
continued;  then  cessation,  the  tramp  of  heavily 
shod  feet,  the  light  extinguished,  and  finally  — 
silence.  A  few  minutes  of  this,  and  then  the  sound 
of  whispered  converse,  low  yet  distinct,  reached 
Chip  from  outside.  Cautiously  she  crept  to  her 
window. 

"I  gif  you  one  hunerd  dollars  now,  for  ze  gal," 
Pete  was  saying,  "an'  one  hunerd  more  when  you 
fotch  her." 

"It's  three  hundred  down,  I've  told  ye,  or  we 
don't  do  business,"  was  her  father's  answer,  in 
almost  a  hiss. 

A  pain  like  a  knife  piercing  her  heart  came  to  Chip. 


12  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

"But  s'pose  she  run  away?"  came  in  Pete's  voice. 

"What,  sixty  miles  to  a  settlement?  You  must 
be  a  damn  fool!" 

"An'  if  she  no  mind  me?" 

"Wai,  thrash  her  then;  she's  yours." 

"But  I  no  gif  so  much,"  parleyed  Pete;  "I  gif  you 
one-feefty  now,  an'  one  hunerd  when  she  come." 

"You'll  give  what  I  say,  and  be  quick  about  it, 
or  I'll  take  her  out  to-morrow,  and  you'll  never  see 
her  again;  so  fork  over." 

"And  you  fetch  her  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  I  told  you."  And  so  the  bargain  was  con- 
cluded. 

Only  a  moment  more,  while  Chip  sat  numb  and 
dazed,  then  came  the  sound  of  footsteps,  as  the  two 
men  separated,  and  then  silence  over  Tim's  Place. 

And  yet,  what  a  horror  for  Chip !  Sold  like  a 
horse  or  a  pig  to  this  worse  than  disgusting  half- 
breed,  and  on  the  morrow  to  be  taken  —  no,  dragged 
— to  the  half-breed's  hut  by  her  hated  father. 

Hardly  conscious  of  the  real  intent  and  object 
of  this  purchase,  she  yet  understood  it  dimly.  Life 
here  was  bad  enough  —  it  was  coarse,  unloved,  even 
filthy,  and  yet,  hard  as  it  was,  it  was  a  thousand 
times  better  than  slavery  with  such  an  owner. 

And  now,  still  weak  and  trembling  from  the  shock, 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  13 

she  raised  her  head  cautiously  and  peeped  out  of  the 
window.  A  faint  spectral  light  frpm  the  rising 
moon  outlined  the  log  barn,  the  two  log  cabins,  and 
pigsty,  which,  with  the  frame  house  she  was  in,  com- 
prised Tim's  Place.  Above  and  beyond  where  the 
forest  enclosed  the  hillside,  it  shone  brighter,  and 
as  Chip  looked  out  upon  the  ethereal  silvered  view, 
away  to  the  right  she  saw  the  dark  opening  into  the 
old  tote  road.  Up  this  they  had  brought  her,  eight 
years  before.  Never  since  had  she  traversed  it; 
and  yet,  as  she  looked  at  it  now,  an  inspiration  born 
of  her  father's  sneer  came  to  her. 

It  was  a  desperate  chance,  a  foolhardy  step  — 
a  journey  so  appalling,  so  almost  hopeless,  she  might 
well  hesitate ;  and  yet,  escape  that  way  was  her  one 
chance.  Only  a  moment  longer  she  waited,  then 
gathering  her  few  belongings  —  a  pair  of  old  shoes, 
the  moccasins  Old  Tomah  had  given  her,  a  skirt 
and  jacket  fashioned  from  Tim's  cast-off  garments, 
a  fur  cap,  and  soft  felt  hat  —  she  thrust  them  into 
a  soiled  pillow-case  and  crept  down  the  stairs. 

Once  out,  she  looked  about,  listened,  then  darted 
up  the  hillside,  straight  for  the  tote  road  entrance. 
Here  she  paused,  put  on  her  moccasins,  and  looked 
back. 

The  moon,  now  above  the  tree-tops,  shone  full 


14  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

upon  Tim's  Place,  softening  and  silvering  all  its 
ugliness  and  all  its  squalor.  Away  to  the  left  stood 
Tomah's  hut,  across  the  river,  a  shining  path  bright 
and  rippled. 

In  spite  of  the  awful  dread  of  her  situation  and  the 
years  of  her  hard,  unpaid,  and  ofttimes  cursed  toil, 
a  pang  of  regret  now  came  to  her.  This  was  her 
home,  wretched  as  it  was.  Here  she  had  at  least 
been  fed  and  warmed  in  winters,  and  here  Old 
Tomah  had  shown  her  kindness.  Oh,  if  he  were 
only  in  his  hut  now,  that  she  might  go  and  waken 
him  softly,  and  beg  him  to  take  her  in  his  canoe  and 
speed  down  the  river ! 

But  no !  only  her  own  desperate  courage  would 
now  avail,  and  realizing  that  this  look  upon  Tim's 
Place  was  the  last  one,  she  turned  and  fled  down  the 
path.  Sixty  miles  of  stony,  bush-encumbered, 
brier-grown,  seldom-travelled  road  lay  ahead  of 
her !  Sixty  miles  of  mingled  swamp,  morass,  and 
rock-ribbed  hill!  Sixty  miles  through  the  sombre 
silence  and  persistent  menace  of  a  wilderness,  peo- 
pled only  by  death-intending  creatures,  yellow-eyed 
and  sharp-fanged ! 

With  only  a  sickening,  soul- nauseating  fate 
awaiting  her  at  Tim's  Place,  and  her  sole  escape 
this  almost  insane  flight,  she  sped  on.  The  faint,. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  15 

spectral  rifts  of  moonlight  through  interlaced  fir 
and  spruce  as  often  deceived  as  aided  her;  bend- 
ing boughs  whipped  her,  bushes  and  logs  tripped 
her,  sharp  stones  and  pointed  sticks  bit  her;  she 
hurried  over  hillocks,  wallowed  through  sloughs 
and  dashed  into  tangles  of  briers,  heedless  of  all 
except  her  one  mad  impulse  to  escape. 

Soon  the  ever  present  menace  of  a  wilderness 
assailed  her,  —  the  yowl  of  a  wildcat  close  at  hand ; 
in  a  swamp,  the  sharp  bark  of  a  wolf;  on  a  hill- 
side above  her,  the  hoot  of  an  owl;  and  when 
after  two  hours  of  this  desperate  flight  had  ex- 
hausted her  and  she  was  forced  to  halt,  strange 
creeping,  crawling  things  seemed  all  about. 

And  now  the  erratic,  fantastic  belief  of  Old 
Tomah  returned  to  her.  With  him  the  forest 
was  peopled  by  a  weird,  uncanny  race,  sometimes 
visible  and  sometimes  not  —  "spites,"  he  called 
them,  and  they  were  the  souls  of  both  man  and 
beast ;  sometimes  good,  sometimes  evil,  accord- 
ing as  they  had  been  in  life,  and  all  good  or  ill 
luck  was  due  to  their  ghostly  influences.  They 
followed  the  hunter  and  trapper  day  and  night, 
luring  him  into  safety  or  danger,  as  they  chose. 
They  were  everywhere,  and  in  countless  numbers, 
ready  and  sure  to  avenge  all  wrongs  and  reward 


l6  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

all  virtues.  They  had  a  Chieftain  also,  a  great 
white  spectre  who  came  forth  from  the  north  in 
winter,  and  swept  across  the  wilderness,  spread- 
ing death  and  terror. 

Many  times  at  Tim's  Place,  Chip  had  sat  en- 
thralled on  winter  evenings,  while  Old  Tomah 
described  these  mystic  genii.  They  were  so  real 
to  him  that  he  made  them  real  to  her,  and  now, 
alone  in  this  vast  wilderness,  spectral  in  the  faint 
moonlight  and  filled  with  countless  terrors,  they 
returned  in  full  force.  On  every  side  she  could 
see  them,  creeping,  crawling,  through  the  under- 
growth or  along  the  interlaced  boughs  above  her. 
She  could  hear  the  faint  hiss  of  their  breath  in 
the  night  wind,  see  the  gleam  of  their  little  eyes  in 
dark  places  —  they  were  crossing  the  path  in  front 
of  her,  following  close  behind,  and  gathering  about 
her  from  every  direction. 

Beneath  bright  sunlight,  a  vast  wilderness  is 
at  best  a  place  peopled  by  many  terrors.  Its  soli- 
tude seems  uncanny,  its  shadow  fearsom3,  its 
silence  ominous.  The  creaking  of  limbs  moving 
in  the  breeze  sounds  like  the  shriek  of  demons; 
the  rush  of  winds  becomes  the  hiss  of  serpents. 
Vague  terrors  assail  one  on  every  hand,  and  the 
rustle  of  each  dry  leaf,  or  breaking  of  every  twig, 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  17 

becomes  the  footfall  of  a  savage  beast.  We  ad- 
vance only  with  caution,  oft  halting  to  look  and 
listen.  A  stern,  defiant  Presence  seems  everywhere 
confronting  us,  and  the  weird  mysticism  of  Na- 
ture bids  us  beware.  By  night  this  invisible  Some- 
thing becomes  of  monstrous  proportions.  Ghosts 
fashion  themselves  out  of  each  rift  of  light,  and 
every  rock,  thick-grown  tree-top,  or  dark  shadow 
becomes  a  goblin. 

To  Chip,  educated  only  in  the  fantastic  lore 
of  Old  Tomah,  these  terrors  now  became  insan- 
ity-breeding. She  could  not  turn  back  —  better 
death  among  the  spites  than  slaving  to  the  half- 
breed  ;  and  so,  faint  from  awful  fear,  gasping 
from  miles  of  running,  she  stumbled  on.  And 
now  a  little  hope  came,  for  the  road  bent  down 
beside  the  river,  and  its  low  voice  seemed  a  word 
of  cheer.  Into  its  cool  depths  she  could  at  least 
plunge  and  die,  as  a  last  resort. 

Soon  an  opening  showed  ahead,  and  a  bridge 
appeared.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  on  this  van- 
tage point,  she  halted.  How  thrice  blessed  those 
knotted  logs  now  seemed !  She  hugged  and  patted 
them  in  .abject  gratitude.  She  crawled  to  the 
edge  and  looked  over  into  the  dark,  gurgling 
water.  Up  above  lay  a  faint  ripple  of  silver.  Here, 


l8  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

also,  she  could  see  the  moon  almost  at  the  zenith, 
and  a  few  flickering  stars. 

A  trifle  of  courage  and  renewal  of  hope  now 
came.  Her  face  and  hands  were  scratched  and 
bleeding,  clothing  torn,  feet  and  legs  black  with 
mud.  But  these  things  she  neither  noticed  nor 
felt  —  only  that  blessed  bridge  of  logs  that  gave 
her  safety,  and  the  moon  that  bade  her  hope. 

Then  she  began  to  count  her  chances.  This 
landmark  told  her  that  five  miles  of  her  desperate 
journey  had  been  covered  and  she  was  still  alive. 
She  began  to  calculate.  How  soon  would  her 
escape  be  discovered,  and  who  would  pursue  her? 
Only  Pete,  her  purchaser,  she  felt  sure,  and  there 
was  a  possible  chance  that  he  might  return  to  his 
cabin  before  doing  so.  Or  perhaps  he  might 
sleep  late,  and  thus  give  her  one  or  two  hours 
more  of  time. 

And  now  she  began  to  review  the  usual  morn- 
ing movements  at  Tim's  Place  —  Tim  the  first 
one  up,  calling  her,  then  going  out  to  milking; 
the  others,  slower  to  arise,  getting  out  and  about 
their  special  duties.  Pete,  she  knew,  always 
slept  in  one  of  the  two  empty  log  cabins  which 
were  first  built  there.  Her  father  slept  in  the 
other  or  in  the  barn.  Neither  would  be  called, 


? 


All  the  goblin  forms  and  hideous  shapes  of  Old  Tomah's  fancy  were 

rushing  and  leaping  about. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  19 

she  knew  —  it  was  get  around  in  time  for  break- 
fast at  Tim's  Place  or  go  hungry.  And  so  she 
speculated  on  her  chances  of  early  pursuit.  Here 
on  this  bridge  she  now  meant  to  remain  until  the 
first  sign  of  dawn,  then  push  on  again  with  all 
speed.  She  already  had  a  five- mile  start,  she  was 
weary,  footsore,  and  still  faint  from  the  awful 
terrors  of  her  flight;  to  go  on  meant  to  rush 
into  the  swarm  of  spites  once  more,  and  so  she 
lay  inert  on  the  hard  logs  watching,  listening, 
calculating. 

And  now  cheered  by  this  trifling  hope  and 
lessening  sense  of  danger,  her  past  life  came  back. 
Her  childhood  in  a  far-off  settlement;  the  home 
always  in  a  turmoil  from  the  strange  men  and 
women  ever  coming  and  going;  the  drinking, 
swearing,  singing,  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  her 
constant  fear  of  them  and  wonder  who  they  were 
and  why  they  came.  There  were  other  features  of 
this  disturbed  life:  frequent  quarrels  between  her 
father  and  mother;  curses,  tears,  and  sometimes 
blows,  until  at  last  after  a  night  more  hideous  than 
any  other  her  mother  had  taken  her  and  fled.  Then 
came  a  long  journey  to  another  village  and  a  new 
life  of  peace  and  quietness.  Here  it  was  all  sc 
different  —  no  red-shirted  men  to  be  afraid  of, 


2O  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

no  loud-voiced  women  drinking  with  them.  She 
became  acquainted  with  other  children  of  her 
own  age,  was  sent  to  school  and  taken  to  church. 
Here,  also,  her  mother  began  to  smile  once  more, 
and  look  content.  For  two  years,  and  the  only 
ones  Chip  cared  to  recall,  she  had  been  a  happy 
schoolgirl,  and  then  came  a  sudden,  tragic  end 
to  it  all.  Of  that  she  never  wished  to  think.  It 
was  all  so  horrible,  and  yet  so  mercifully  brief. 

The  one  friend  life  held,  her  mother,  had  been 
brought  home,  wounded  to  death  amid  the  whir- 
ring wheels  of  the  mill  where  she  worked;  there 
were  a  few  hours  of  agonized  dread  as  her  life 
ebbed  away,  a  whisper  or  two  of  love  and  longing, 
and  then  the  sad  farewell  made  doubly  awful  by 
her  father's  frowning  face  and  harsh  voice.  At 
its  ending,  and  in  spite  of  her  fears  and  tears,  she 
was  now  borne  away  by  him.  For  days  they 
journeyed  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  vast  wilder- 
ness, to  halt  at  last  at  Tim's  Place. 

Like  a  dread  dream  it  all  came  back  now,  as 
she  lay  there  on  this  one  flat  spot  of  security  —  the 
bridge  —  and  listened  to  the  river's  low  murmur. 

The  moon  was  lowering  now.  Already  the 
shadow  of  the  stream's  bordering  trees  had  reached 
her.  First  the  stars  vanished,  then  the  moon 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  21 

faded  into  a  dim  patch  of  light,  finally  that  disap- 
peared, a  chill  breeze  swept  down  from  a  neigh- 
boring mountain,  and  the  trees  began  to  moan 
and  creak.  Then  a  fiercer  blast  swept  through 
the  forest,  the  great  firs  and  spruces'  bent  and 
groaned  and  screamed.  Surely  the  spites  were 
gathering  in  force  again,  and  this  was  their  doing. 

Once  more  she  began  to  hear  them  creeping, 
crawling,  over  the  bridge.  They  spit,  they  snarled, 
they  growled.  The  darkness  grew  more  intense, 
no  longer  could  the  river's  course  be  seen,  but 
only  a  black  chasm. 

All  through  her  mad  flight  the  wilderness  had 
been  ghostly  and  spectral  in  the  moonlight; 
now  it  had  become  lost  in  inky  blackness,  yet 
alive  with  demoniac  voices.  All  the  goblin 
forms  and  hideous  shapes  of  Old  Tomah's  fancy 
were  rushing  and  leaping  about.  Now  high  up 
in  the  tree-tops,  now  deep  in  the  hollows,  they 
screamed  and  shrieked  and  moaned. 

And  now,  just  as  this  fierce  battle  of  sound  and 
spectral  shape  was  at  its  worst,  and  Chip,  a  hope- 
less, helpless  mite  of  humanity,  crouched  low 
upon  the  bridge,  suddenly  a  vicious  growl  reached 
her,  and  raising  her  head  she  saw  at  the  bridge's 
end  two  gleaming  eyes ! 


CHAPTER  II 

MARTIN  FRISBIE  and  his  nephew  Raymond 
Stetson,  or  Ray,  were  cutting  boughs  and  carry- 
ing them  to  two  tents  standing  in  the  mouth  of 
a  bush-choked  opening  into  the  forest.  In  front 
of  this  Angie,  Martin's  wife,  was  placing  tin  dishes, 
knives,  and  forks,  upon  a  low  table  of  boards. 
Upon  the  bank  of  a  broad,  slow-running  stream, 
two  canoes  were  drawn  out,  and  halfway  between 
these  and  the  table  a  camp-fire  burnt. 

Here  Levi,  Martin's  guide  for  many  trips  into 
this  wilderness,  was  also  occupied,  intently  watch- 
ing two  pails  depending  from  bending  wambecks, 
a  coffee-pot  hanging  from  another,  and  two  frying- 
pans,  whose  sputtering  contents  gave  forth  an 
enticing  odor. 

Twilight  was  just  falling,  the  river  murmured 
in  low  melody,  and  a  few  rods  above  a  small  rill 
entered  it,  adding  a  more  musical  tinkle. 

Soon  Levi  deftly  swung  one  of  the  pails  away 
from  the  flame  with  a  hook-stick  and  speared  a 
potato  with  a  fork. 

22 


CHIP   MCGDTRE  23 

"Supper  ready,"  he  called;  and  then  as  the  rest 
seated  themselves  at  the  table,  he  advanced,  carry- 
ing the  pail  of  steaming  potatoes  on  the  hooked 
stick  and  the  frying-pan  in  his  other  hand. 

The  meal  had  scarce  begun  when  a  crackling 
in  the  undergrowth  back  of  the  tent  was  heard, 
and  on  the  instant  there  emerged  a  girl.  Her 
clothing  was  in  shreds,  her  face  and  hands  were 
black  with  mud,  streaks  of  blood  showed  across 
cheek  and  chin,  and  her  eyes  were  fierce  and  sunken. 

"For  God's  sake  give  me  suthin'  to  eat,"  she 
said,  looking  from  one  to  another  of  the  astonished 
group.  "I'm  damn  near  starved  —  only  a  bite," 
she  added,  sinking  to  her  knees  and  extending 
her  hands.  "I  hain't  eat  nothin'  but  roots  'n'  ber- 
ries for  three  days." 

Angie  was  the  first  to  ^recover.  "Here,"  she 
said,  hastily  extending  her  plate,  "take  this." 

Without  a  word  the  starved  creature  grasped 
it  and  began  eating  as  only  a  desperate,  hungry 
animal  would,  while  the  group  watched  her. 

"Don't  hurry  so,"  exclaimed  Martin,  whose 
wits  had  now  returned.  "Here,  take  this  cup  of 
coffee." 

Soon  the  food  vanished  and  then  the  girl  arose. 
"Sit  down  again,  my  poor  child,"  entreated  Angie, 


24  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

who  had  observed  the  strange  scene  with  moist 
eyes,  "and  tell  us  who  you  are  and  where  you 
came  from." 

"My  name's  Chip,"  answered  the  girl,  bluntly, 
"an'  I'm  runnin'  away  from  Tim's  Place,  'cause 
dad  sold  me  to  Pete  Bolduc. " 

"  Sold  —  you  —  to  —  Pete  —  Bolduc, "  exclaimed 
Angie,  looking  at  her  wide-eyed.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"He  did,  sartin,"  answered  the  girl,  laconically. 
"I  heerd  'em  makin'  the  bargain,  'n'  I  fetched 
three  hundred  dollars." 

Martin  and  his  wife  exchanged  glances. 

"Well,  and  then  what?"  continued  Angie. 

"Wai,  then  I  waited  a  spell,  till  they'd  turned 
in,"  explained  the  girl,  "and  then  I  lit  out.  I 
knowed  'twas  sixty  miles  to  the  settlement,  but 
'twas  moonlight  'n'  I  chanced  it.  I've  had  an 
awful  time,  though,  the  spites  hev  chased  me  all 
the  way,  I  was  jist  makin'  a  nestle  when  I  seed 
yer  light,  an'  I  crept  through  the  brush  'n'  peeked. 
I  seen  ye  wa'n't  nobody  from  Tim's  Place,  'n'  then 
I  cum  out.  I  guess  you've  saved  my  life.  I  was 
gittin'  dizzy." 

It  was  a  brief,  blunt  story  whose  directness  be- 
spoke truth;  but  it  revealed  such  a  pigsty  state 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  25 

of  morality  at  this  Tim's  Place  that  the  little  group 
of  astonished  listeners  could  scarce  finish  supper 
or  cease  watching  this  much-soiled  girl. 

"And  so  your  name  is  Chip,"  queried  Angie 
at  last  "Chip  what?" 

"Chip  McGuire, "  answered  the  waif,  quickly; 
"only  my  real  name  ain't  Chip,  it's  Vera;  but 
they've  allus  called  me  Chip  at  Tim's  Place." 

"And  your  father  sold  you  to  this  man?" 

"He  did,  V  he's  a  damn  bad  man,"  replied 
Chip,  readily.  "He  killed  somebody  once,  an* 
he  don't  show  up  often.  I  hate  him!" 

"You  mustn't  use  swear  words,"  returned 
Angie,  "it's  not  nice." 

The  girl  looked  abashed.  "I  guess  you'd  cuss 
if  you'd  been  sold  to  such  a  nasty-looking  man  as 
Pete,"  she  responded.  "He  chaws  terbaccer  'n' 
lets  it  drizzle  on  his  chin,  'n'  he  hain't  but  one  eye." 

Angie  smiled,  while  Martin  stared  at  the  girl 
with  increased  astonishment.  He  knew  who  this 
McGuire  was,  and  something  of  his  history,  and 
that  Tim's  Place  was  a  hillside  clearing  far  up  the 
river,  inhabited  by  an  Irish  family  devoted  to  the 
raising  of  potatoes.  He  had  halted  there  once, 
long  enough  to  observe  its  somewhat  slothful  con- 
dition, and  to  buy  pork  and  potatoes  ;  but  this 


26  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

tale  was  a  revelation,  and  the  girl  herself  a  greater 
one. 

This  oasis  in  the  wilderness  was  fully  forty  miles 
above  here,  its  only  connection  with  civilization 
was  a  seldom-used  log  road  which  only  an  expe- 
rienced woodsman  could  follow,  and  how  this 
mere  child  had  dared  it,  was  a  marvel. 

But  there  she  was,  squat  on  the  ground  and 
watching  them  with  big  black,  pleading  eyes. 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  to  care  for  her  now, 
as  humanity  insisted,  and  Angie  made  the  first 
move.  It  was  in  the  direction  of  cleanliness;  for 
entering  the  tent,  she  soon  appeared  with  some 
of  her  own  extra  clothing,  soap,  and  towels,  and 
bade  the  girl  follow  her  up  the  river  a  few  rods. 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly  above  the  tree- 
tops,  the  camp-fire  burned  brightly,  and  Martin, 
Ray,  and  Levi  were  lounging  near  it  when  the  two 
returned,  and  in  one  an  astonishing  transforma- 
tion had  taken  place. 

Angie  had  gone  away  with  a  girl  of  ten  in  respect 
to  clothing,  her  skirt  evidently  made  of  gunny 
cloth  and  reaching  but  little  below  her  knees,  and 
for  a  waist,  what  was  once  a  man's  red  flannel 
shirt,  and  both  in  rags.  Soiled  with  black  mud, 
and  bleeding,  she  was  an  object  pitiable  beyond 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  27 

words;  she  returned  a  young  lady,  almost,  in 
stature,  her  face  shining  and  rosy,  and  her  eyes  so 
tender  with  gratitude  that  they  were  pathetic. 

Another  change  had  also  come  with  cleanliness 
and  clothing  —  a  sudden  bashfulness.  It  was 
some  time  ere  she  could  be  made  to  talk  again,  but 
finally  that  wore  away  and  then  her  story  caire. 
What  a  tale  it  was  —  scarce  credible. 

At  first  were  growing  terrors  as  she  plunged 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  shadowy  forest,  the 
brush  and  logs  that  tripped  her,  the  mud  holes  she 
wallowed  through,  the  ever  increasing  horrors  of 
this  flight,  the  blood- chilling  cries  of  night  prowlers, 
the  gathering  darkness  while  she  waited  on  the 
bridge,  the  awful  moment  when  she  saw  two  yellow 
eyes  watching  her,  not  twenty  feet  away,  her  screams 
of  agonized  fear,  and  then  time  that  seemed  eter- 
nity, while  she  expected  the  next  moment  to  feel 
the  fangs  of  a  hungry  panther. 

How  blessed  the  first  dawn  of  morning  had 
seemed,  how  she  ran  on  and  on,  until  faint  with 
hunger  she  halted  to  eat  roots,  leaves,  berries  — 
anything  to  sustain  life !  The  river  had  been  her 
one  boon  of  hope  and  consolation,  and  even  beyond 
the  fear  of  wild  beast  had  been  the  dread  of  pur- 
suit and  capture  by  this  half-breed.  When  night 


28  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

came,  she  had  crept  into  a  thicket,  covering  herself 
with  boughs;  when  daylight  dawned,  she  had 
pushed  on  again,  ever  growing  weaker  and  oft 
stumbling  from  faintness. 

Hope  had  almost  vanished,  her  strength  had 
quite  left  her,  the  last  day  had  been  a  partial  blank 
so  far  as  knowledge  of  her  progress  went,  but 
filled  with  eerie  sights  and  sounds.  From  first  to 
last  the  spites  of  Old  Tomah  had  kept  her  company 
—  by  day  she  heard  them,  swifter- footed  than 
she,  in  the  undergrowth  ;  by  night  they  were  all 
about,  dodging  behind  trees,  hopping  from  limb 
to  limb,  and  sometimes  snapping  and  snarling. 
The  one  supreme  moment  of  joy,  oft  referred  to, 
was  when  she  had  seen  her  rescuers'  camp-fire, 
with  human,  and  possibly  friendly,  faces  about  it. 

It  was  a  fantastic,  weird,  almost  spookish  tale,  — 
the  spectres  she  had  seen  were  so  real  to  her  that 
the  telling  made  them  seem  almost  so  to  the  rest, 
and  beyond  that,  the  girl  herself,  so  like  a  young 
witch,  with  her  shadowy  eyes  and  furtive  glances, 
added  to  the  illusion. 

But  now  came  a  diversion,  for  Levi  freshened 
the  fire,  and  at  a  nod  from  Angie,  Ray  brought 
forth  his  banjo.  It  was  his  one  pet  foible,  and  it 
went  with  him  everywhere,  and  now,  with  time 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  29 

and  place  so  in  accord,  he  was  glad  to  exhibit  his 
talent.  He  was  not  an  expert,  —  a  few  jigs  and 
plantation  melodies  composed  his  repertory,  —  but 
with  the  moonlight  glinting  through  the  spruce 
boughs,  the  river  murmuring  near,  somehow 
one  could  not  fail  to  catch  the  quaint  humor  of 
"Old  Uncle  Ned,"  "Jim  Crack  Corn,"  and  the 
like,  and  see  the  two  dusky  lovers  as  they  floated 
down  the  "Tombigbee  River,"  and  feel  the  pathos 
of  "Nellie  Grey"  and  "Old  Kentucky  Home." 

Ray  sang  fairly  well  and  in  sympathy  with  each 
theme.  To  Angie  and  the  rest  it  was  but  ordi- 
nary; but  to  this  waif,  who  never  before  had  heard 
a  banjo  or  a  darky  song,  it  was  marvellous.  Her 
face  lit  up  with  keen  interest,  her  eyes  grew  misty 
at  times,  and  once  two  tears  stole  down  her 
cheeks. 

For  an  hour  Ray  was  the  centre  of  interest,  and 
then  Angie  arose. 

"Come,  Chip,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "it's  time 
to  go  to  bed,  and  you  are  to  share  my  tent. " 

"I'd  rather  not,"  the  girl  replied  bluntly.  "I 
ain't  fit.  I  kin  jist  ez  well  curl  'longside  o'  the 
fire." 

But  Angie  insisted  and  the  girl  followed  her 
into  the  tent. 


30  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

Here  occurred  another  incident  that  must  be 
related.  Angie,  always  devout,  and  somewhat 
puritanical,  was  one  who  never  forgot  her  nightly 
prayer,  and  now,  when  ready  for  slumber,  she 
knelt  on  the  bed  of  fir  twigs,  and  by  the  light  of  one 
small  candle  offered  her  usual  petition,  while  Chip 
watched  her  with  wide  and  wondering  eyes.  As 
might  be  expected,  that  waif  was  mentioned,  and 
with  deep  feeling. 

"Do  ye  s'pose  God  heard  ye?"  she  queried  with 
evident  candor,  when  Angie  ceased. 

"Why,  certainly,"  came  the  earnest  answer; 
"God  hears  all  prayers." 

"And  do  the  spites  hear  'em?" 

"There  are  no  such  creatures  as  'spites,'"  an- 
swered Angie,  severely;  "you  only  imagine  them, 
and  what  this  Indian  has  told  you  is  super- 
stition." 

"But  I've  seen  'em,  hundreds  on  'em,  big  and 
little,"  returned  the  girl,  stoutly. 

Angie  looked  at  her  with  pity. 

"Put  that  notion  out  of  your  head,  once  for 
all,"  she  said,  almost  sternly.  "It  is  only  a  delu- 
sion, and  no  doubt  told  to  scare  you." 

And  poor  Chip,  conscious  that  perhaps  she  had 
sinned  in  speech,  said  no  more. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  31 

For  a  long  time  Angle  lay  sleepless  upon  her 
fragrant  bed,  recalling  the  waif's  strange  story 
and  trying  to  grasp  the  depth  and  breadth  of  her 
life  at  Tim's  Place;  also  to  surmise,  if  possible, 
how  serious  a  taint  of  evil  she  had  inherited.  That 
her  father  was  vile  beyond  compare  seemed  posi- 
tive; that  her  mother  might  have  been  scarce  bet- 
ter was  probable.  No  mention,  thus  far,  had 
been  made  of  her ;  and  so  Angie  reflected  upon 
this  pitiful  child's  ancestry  and  what  manner  of 
heritage  she  had  been  blessed  or  cursed  with. 
Some  of  her  attributes  awoke  Angie's  admiration. 
She  had  shown  utter  abhorrence  of  this  brutal 
sale  of  herself,  a  marvellous  courage  in  endeavor- 
ing to  escape  it.  She  seemed  grateful  for  what 
had  been  done  for  her,  and  a  partial  realization  of 
her  own  unfitness  for  association  with  refined 
people.  Her  speech  was  no  worse  than  might  be 
expected  from  her  life  at  Tim's  Place.  Doubtless, 
she  was  unable  to  read  or  write.  And  so  Angie 
lay,  considering  all  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  situa- 
tion and  of  this  girl's  life. 

There  was  also  another  side  to  it  all,  the  humane 
one.  They  were  on  their  way  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness, for  a  business  visit  to  the  nearest  settlement, 
intending  to  return  to  the  woods  in  a  few  days  — 


32  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

and  what  was  to  be  done  with  this  child  of  misfor- 
tune? 

Most  assuredly  they  must  protect  her  for  the 
present.  But  was  there  any  one  to  whom  she 
could  be  turned  over  and  cared  for?  It  seemed 
possible  this  brutal  buyer  of  her  would  follow  her 
out  of  the  woods,  to  abduct  her  if  found,  and 
then  the  moral  side  of  this  episode  with  all  its 
abominable  possibilities  occurred  to  Angie,  who 
was,  above  all,  unselfish  and  noble-hearted.  Vice, 
crime,  and  immorality  were  horrible  to  her. 

Here  was  a  self-evident  duty  thrusting  itself 
upon  her,  and  how  to  meet  it  with  justice  to  her- 
self, her  husband,  and  her  own  conscience,  was  a 
problem.  Thus  dwelling  upon  this  complex  situa- 
tion, she  fell  asleep. 

The  first  faint  light  of  morning  was  stealing  into 
the  tent  when  Angie  felt  her  companion  stir.  She 
had,  exhausted  as  she  doubtless  was,  fallen  asleep 
almost  the  moment  she  lay  down ;  but  now  she  was 
evidently  awake. 

Curious  to  note  what  she  would  do,  Angie  remained 
with  closed  eyes  and  motionless.  From  the  corner 
of  the  tent  where  she  had  curled  up  the  night  before, 
the  girl  now  cautiously  crept  toward  the  elder 
woman.  Inch  by  inch,  upon  the  bed  of  boughs, 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  33 

she  moved  nearer,  until  Angle,  watching  with  half- 
open  eyes,  saw  her  head  lowered,  and  felt  two  soft 
warm  lips  touch  her  hand. 

It  was  a  trifle.  It  was  no  more  than  the  act  of 
a  cat  who  rubs  herself  against  her  mistress  or  a  dog 
who  licks  his  master's  hand,  and  yet  it  settled  once 
for  all  that  waif's  fate  and  Angie's  indecision. 


CHAPTER  III 

"  Women  are  like  grasshoppers  —  ye  kin  never  tell  which 
way  they're  goin'  to  jump."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

LEVI  was  starting  a  fire,  Ray  washing  potatoes, 
and  Martin,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  using  a  towel 
vigorously  near  the  canoes,  when  Angie  and  Chip 
emerged  that  morning;  and  now  while  breakfast 
is  under  way,  a  moment  may  be  seized  to  explain 
who  these  people  were  and  their  mission  in  this 
wilderness. 

Many  years  before,  in  a  distant  village  called 
Greenvale,  two  brothers,  David  and  Amzi  Curtis, 
had  quarrelled  over  an  unfortunate  division  of  in- 
herited land.  The  outcome  was  that  Amzi,  some- 
what misanthropic  over  the  death  of  his  wife,  and 
of  peculiar  make-up,  deserted  his  home  and  little 
daughter  Angeline,  and  vanished.  For  many  years 
no  one  knew  of  his  whereabouts,  and  he  was  given 
up  as  dead. 

In  the  meantime  his  child,  cared  for  by  a  kindly 
woman  known  as  Aunt  Comfort,  had  grown  to 
womanhood.  About  this  time  a  boyhood  sweet- 

34 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  35 

heart  of  Angelinas,  named  Martin  Frisbie,  who  had 
been  gathering  wealth  in  a  distant  city,  invited  a 
former  schoolmate,  now  the  village  doctor  in  Green- 
vale,  to  join  him  on  an  outing  trip  into  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Here  something  of  the  history  of  a  notorious  out- 
law named  McGuire  became  known  to  Martin,  and 
more  important  than  that,  a  queer  old  hermit  was 
discovered,  dwelling  in  solitude  on  the  shore  of  a 
small  lake.  Who  he  was,  and  why  this  strange 
manner  of  life,  Martin  could  not  learn,  and  not 
until  later,  when  he  returned  to  Greenvale  to  woo 
his  former  sweetheart  once  more,  did  he  even  guess. 
Here,  however,  from  a  description  furnished  by  a 
village  nondescript,  —  a  sort  of  Natty  Bumpo  and 
philosopher  combined,  known  as  Old  Cy  Walker, 
who  had  been  Martin's  youthful  companion,  —  he 
was  led  to  believe  that  the  queer  hermit  and  the 
long- missing  Amzi  were  one  and  the  same. 

Another  trip  into  this  wilderness  with  Old  Cy, 
taken  to  identify  the  hermit,  resulted  in  proving  the 
correctness  of  the  surmise.  Then  Martin  set  about 
making  this  misanthropic  recluse  more  comfortable  in 
all  ways  possible ;  and  then,  leaving  Old  Cy  to  keep 
him  company,  he  returned  to  Greenvale  and  Angie. 

A  marriage  was  the  outcome  of  his  return  to  his 


36  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

native  village,  and  then,  with  his  nephew,  Ray,  and 
long-tried  guide,  Levi,  as  helpers  on  this  unique 
wedding  trip,  the  hermit  was  visited. 

It  was  hoped  that  meeting  his  child  once  more 
would  result  in  inducing  him  to  abandon  his  wild- 
wood  existence  and  to  return  to  civilization ;  and 
it  did  —  partially.  He  seemed  happy  to  meet  his 
daughter  again,  consented  to  return  with  them 
when  ready,  and  after  a  couple  of  weeks'  sojourn 
here,  the  canoes  were  packed  and  all  set  out  for 
civilization  and  Greenvale  once  more. 

But  "home,  sweet  home,"  albeit  it  was,  as  in 
this  case,  a  lonely  log  cabin  in  a  vast  wilderness, 
proved  stronger  than  parental  love  or  aught  else; 
and  sometime  during  first  night's  camp  on  the  way 
out,  this  strange  recluse  stole  away  in  his  canoe 
and  returned. 

"It's  natur,"  Old  Cy  observed  when  morning 
came,  "an'  home  is  the  hardest  spot  in  the  world 
to  fergit.  Amzi's  lived  in  that  old  shack  all  'lone 
for  twenty  years.  He's  got  wonted  to  it  like  a  dog 
to  his  kennel,  an'  all  the  powers  o'  the  univarse  can't 
break  up  the  feelin'." 

It  seemed  an  indisputable,  if  disappointing,  fact, 
and  Martin  led  his  party  back  to  the  hermit's  home 
once  more. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  37 

Another  plan  was  now  considered  by  Martin  — 
to  buy  the  township,  or  at  least  a  large  tract  enclos- 
ing this  lake,  build  a  more  commodious  log  cabin  for 
the  use  of  himself  and  his  wife,  and  spend  a  portion 
of  each  summer  there.  There  were  several  reasons 
other  than  those  of  affection  for  this  decision. 

This  lake,  perhaps  half  a  mile  in  diameter,  teemed 
with  trout.  The  low  mountains  enclosing  it  were 
thickly  covered  with  fine  spruce  and  fir,  groves  of 
pine  with  some  beech  and  birch  grew  in  the  valleys ; 
deer,  moose,  and  feathered  game  abounded  here, 
and  best  of  all,  no  vandal  lumbermen  ever  encroached 
upon  this  region. 

It  was,  all  considered,  a  veritable  sportsman's 
paradise.  Most  likely  a  few  thousand  dollars 
would  purchase  it,  and  so,  for  these  collective 
reasons,  Martin  decided  to  buy  it. 

Old  Cy  was  left  to  keep  the  hermit  company; 
Martin,  his  wife,  and  Ray,  with  Levi,  started  for 
civilization  to  obtain  needed  supplies,  and  had 
been  four  days  upon  the  way  when  this  much- 
abused  waif  appeared  on  the  scene.  The  party 
were  journeying  in  two  canoes,  one  manned  by 
Ray,  who  had  already  learned  to  wield  a  paddle, 
which  carried  the  tents  and  luggage ;  while  the 
other  was  occupied  by  Martin,  his  wife,  and  Levi. 


38  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

The  only  available  seat  for  the  new  arrival  was  in 
Ray's  canoe,  and  when  breakfast  was  disposed  of 
and  the  voyagers  ready  to  start,  she  was  given  a 
place  therein. 

The  river  at  this  point  was  broad  and  of  slow 
current,  only  two  days'  journey  was  needful  to  reach 
the  settlement,  and  no  cause  for  worry  appeared  — 
but  Levi  felt  otherwise. 

"You'd  best  hug  the  futher  shore,"  he  observed 
to  Ray  quietly  when  the  boy  pushed  off,  "an* 
don't  git  out  o'  sight  o'  us."  "I  ain't  sartin  'bout 
the  outcome  o'  this  matter,"  he  said  to  Martin  later. 
"I  know  that  half- breed,  Bolduc,  and  he's  a  bad 
'un.  From  the  gal's  story  he  paid  big  money  fer 
her.  He  don't  know  the  meanin'  o'  law,  and  if 
he  follers  down  the  tote  road,  as  I  callate  he  will, 
'n'  ketches  sight  o'  her,  the  first  we'll  know  on't  '11 
be  the  crack  o'  a  rifle.  The  wonder  to  me  is  he 
didn't  ketch  her  'fore  she  got  to  us.  He  could  track 
her  faster'n  she  could  run.  I  don't  want  to  'larm 
you  folks,  but  I  shan't  feel  easy  till  we're  out  o'  the 
woods." 

It  wasn't  reassuring. 

But  no  thought  of  this  came  to  Ray,  at  least, 
and  these  two  young  people,  yielding  to  the  magic 
of  the  morning,  the  rippled  river  that  bore  them 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  39 

onward,  the  birds  singing  along  the  fir- clad  banks, 
and  all  the  exhilaration  of  the  wilderness,  soon 
reached  the  care- free  converse  of  youthful  friends. 
"I  never  had  nothin'  but  work  'n'  cussin',''  Chip 
responded,  when  Ray  asked  if  she  never  had  any 
time  she  could  call  her  own.  "Tim  thinked  I 
couldn't  get  tired,  I  guess.  He'd  roust  me  up  fust 
of  all  'n'  larrup  me  if  he  caught  me  shirkin'.  Once 
I  had  a  little  posey  bed  back  o'  the  pig-pen.  I  fixed 
it  after  dark  an'  mornin's  when  I  ketched  the 
chance.  He  ketched  me  thar  one  mornin'  a-weedin' 
it  'n'  knocked  me  sprawlin'  an'  then  stomped  all  over 
the  posies.  That  night  I  went  out  into  the  woods 
'n'  begged  the  spites  to  git  him  killed  somehow. 
'Nother  time  I  forgot  to  put  up  the  bars,  an'  the 
cows  got  into  the  taters.  That  night  he  tied  me 
to  a  stump  clus  to  the  bars,  an'  left  me  thar  all 
night.  I  used  to  be  more  skeered  o'  my  dad  'n 
I  was  o'  Tim,  tho'.  He'd  look  at  me  like  he  hated 
me,  an'  say,  'Shut  up,'  if  I  said  a  word,  an'  I  'most 
believed  he'd  kill  me,  just  fer  nothin'.  Once  he 
said  he'd  take  me  out  into  the  woods  at  night  Jn' 
bait  a  bear  trap  with  me  if  he  heerd  I  didn't  mind 
Tim.  I  told  Old  Tomah  that,  an'  he  said  if  he  did, 
he'd  shoot  him;  but  Old  Tomah  wasn't  round  only 
winters.  I  hated  dad  so  I'd  'a'  shot  him  myself, 


40  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

I  guess,  if  I  cud  'a'  got  hold  o'  a  gun  when  he  wa'n't 
watchinV 

"It's  awful  to  have  to  feel  that  way  toward  your  own 
father,"  interrupted  Ray,  "for  he  was  your  father." 

"I  s'pose  'twas,"  admitted  Chip,  candidly, 
"but  I  never  felt  much  different.  I've  seen  him 
slap  mother  when  she  was  on  her  knees  a-bawlin', 
an'  the  way  he  would  cuss  her  was  awful." 

"But  you  had  some  friendship  from  this  old 
Indian,"  queried  Ray,  who  began  to  realize  what 
a  pitiful  life  the  girl  had  led;  "he  was  good  to  you, 
wasn't  he?" 

"He  was,  sartin,"  returned  Chip,  eagerly;  "he 
used  to  tell  me  the  spites  'ud  fix  dad  'fore  long,  so 
he'd  never  show  up  agin,  'n'  when  I  got  big  'nuff  he'd 
sneak  me  off  some  night  'n'  take  me  to  the  settle- 
ment, whar  I  could  arn  a  livin'.  Old  Tomah  was 
the  only  one  who  cared  a  cuss  fer  me.  I  used  to 
bawl  when  he  went  away  every  spring,  an'  beg  him 
to  take  me  'long  'n'  help  him  camp  'n'  cook.  I'd 
'a'  done  'most  anything  fer  Old  Tomah.  I  didn't 
mind  havin'  to  work  all  the  time  fer  Tim.  I  didn't 
mind  wearin'  clothes  made  out  o'  old  duds  'n' 
bein'  cussed  fer  not  workin'  hard  'nuff.  What  I 
did  mind  was  not  havin'  nobody  who  cared  whether 
I  lived  or  died,  or  said  a  good  word  to  me.  Some- 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  41 

times  I  got  so  lonesome,  I  used  to  go  out  in  the  woods 
nights  when  'twas  moonlight  'n'  beg  the  spites  to 
help  me.  I  used  to  think  mother  might  be  one  on 
'em  'n'  she'd  keer  fer  me.  I  think  she  was,  an' 
'twas  her  as  kept  me  goin'  till  I  found  you  folks's 
camp.  I  got  awful  skeered  them  nights  I  was 
runnin'  away,  an'  when  'twas  so  dark  I  couldn't 
see  no  more,  an'  I  heerd  wildcats  yowlin',  I'd  git 
on  my  knees  'n'  beg  mother  to  keep  'em  away.  I 
think  she  did,  an'  allus  shall." 

Much  more  in  connection  with  the  wild,  harsh 
life  Chip  had  led  for  eight  years  was  now  told  by 
her.  Old  Tomah's  superstition  and  belief  in  hob- 
goblins were  enlarged  upon.  Life  at  Tim's  Place, 
with  all  its  filth,  brutality,  and  nearly  animal  exist- 
ence, was  described  in  full;  for  Chip's  tongue,  once 
loosened,  ran  on  and  on,  while  Ray,  spellbound  by 
this  description,  was  scarce  conscious  he  was  wield- 
ing a  paddle.  Never  before  had  he  heard  such  a 
tale,  so  unusual  and  so  pathetic.  Naturally  of 
chivalrous  and  manly  nature,  it  appealed  to  him  as 
naught  else  could.  Then  the  girl  herself,  with  her 
big,  pleading  eyes,  her  queer  belief  in  those  woodsy, 
spectral  forms  she  called  spites,  and  her  free 
and  easy  confidence  in  him,  and  his  sympathy  also, 
surprised  Ray.  Her  speech  was  coarse  and  crude 


42  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

—  the  vernacular  of  Tim's  Place.  Now  and  then 
a  profane  word  crept  in ;  yet  it  was  absolute  truth, 
and  forceful  from  its  very  simplicity. 

But  another  influence,  more  potent  than  her 
wrongs,  was  now  appealing  to  Chip  —  her  sense  of 
joy  at  her  rescue,  and  with  it  a  positive  faith  that 
the  spites  had  been  the  means  of  her  escape. 

"I  know  they  did  it,"  she  said  time  and  again, 
"an*  I  know  mother  was  one  on  'em.  I  wished  I 
cud  do  suthin'  to  show  'em  how  thankful  I  am  'n' 
how  happy  I  am  now."  And  Ray,  astonished  that 
so  keen-witted  and  courageous  a  girl  should  have 
such  a  fantastic  belief,  made  no  comment. 

A  more  serious  subject  was  under  discussion  in 
the  other  canoe,  meantime,  as  to  the  future  disposi- 
tion of  Chip  herself. 

"I  feel  it  my  duty  to  take  care  of  her,"  Angie 
said,  after  relating  her  conversation  with  Chip  and 
that  morning's  incident.  "She  is  a  homeless,  out- 
cast waif,  needing  education  and  everything  else 
to  Christianize  her.  We  must  bring  her  to  the  settle- 
ment, but  to  turn  her  adrift  might  mean  leaving  her 
to  a  life  of  vice,  even  if  she  escapes  her  brutal  father 
and  this  worse  half-breed.  Then,  again,  I  am  not 
sure  that  her  parentage  will  bear  inspection.  She 
has  told  me  something  about  her  earlier  life,  and 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  43 

about  her  mother,  who  evidently  loved  her.  One 
course  only  seems  plain  to  me,  —  to  take  care  of 
and  educate  this  unfortunate." 

"I  am  willing,  my  dear,"  responded  Martin,  who, 
like  all  new  husbands,  was  ready  to  concede  any- 
thing, "only  I  suggest  that  you  go  a  little  slow. 
You  can't  tell  yet  what  this  girl  will  develop  into. 
She  has  had  the  worst  possible  parentage,  without 
doubt.  Her  life  at  Tim's  Place,  and  contact  with 
lumbermen  or  worse,  has  been  no  benefit.  She  is 
grossly  ignorant,  and  may  be  ill-tempered,  and  once 
given  to  understand  that  you  have  practically 
adopted  her,  you  can't  —  or  won't  —  have  the 
heart  to  turn  her  off.  Now  we  are  to  return 
to  the  lake  and  remain  a  month,  as  you  know, 
and  in  the  meantime,  what  will  you  do  with  this 
girl?" 

This  was  reducing  Angie's  philanthropic  impulses 
to  a  focus,  as  it  were,  and  it  set  her  thinking.  Some- 
thing more  of  this  discussion  followed,  and  finally 
Angie  announced  her  decision. 

"We  must  take  the  girl  back  with  us,"  she  said, 
"and  begin  her  reformation  at  the  camp.  If  she 
shows  any  aptitude  and  willingness  to  obey,  we  will 
take  her  to  Greenvale.  If  not,  you  must  arrange 
to  get  her  into  some  institution." 


44  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM  S   PLACE 

"And  suppose  the  half-breed  finds  where  she  is, 
what  then?"  inquired  Martin. 

"What  do  you  say,  Levi?"  he  added,  turning  to 
his  guide,  "you 'know  this  fellow;  what  will  he  be 
apt  to  do?" 

"I  s'pose  you  know  what  a  panther'll  do,  robbed 
of  her  cub,"  Levi  answered,  "an'  how  a  bull  moose 
acts  in  runnin'  time,  mebbe.  Wai,  this  Pete  is 
worse'n  both  on  'em  biled  into  one,  I  callate.  If 
you're  goin'  ter  take  the  gal  back,  you've  got  to  keep 
her  shady,  or  some  day  you'll  find  her  missin'. 
Besides,  Pete,  ez  I  told  ye,  don't  know  the  meanin' 
o'  law  and  is  handy  with  a  gun." 

But  Martin  did  not  quite  share  Levi's  fears,  and 
so  Angie's  decision  was  agreed  to.  Levi's  advice 
to  "keep  shady"  was  accepted,  however,  and  all 
through  that  summer's  somewhat  thrilling  experi- 
ences it  was  the  rule  of  conduct. 

When  noon  came,  Levi  led  the  way  into  a  lagoon ; 
in  a  secluded  spot  at  its  head  dinner  was  cooked, 
and  when  the  sun  was  well  down  and  a  tributary 
stream  was  reached,  he  turned  into  it,  and  halted  not 
for  the  night  camp  until  a  full  half-mile  separated 
them  from  the  river. 

A  certain  vague  sense  of  impending  danger  began 
to  impress  both  Martin  and  his  wife,  and  the  woods 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  45 

seemed  to  hold  a  one-eyed,  malicious  villain  who 
might  appear  at  any  moment.  A  danger  which  we 
know  actually  exists,  we  can  avoid  or  meet  squarely ; 
but  one  merely  imaginary  becomes  irksome  and 
really  more  annoying. 

No  hint  of  this  was  dropped  by  the  three  older 
ones,  and  when  the  tents  were  pitched,  long  before 
twilight,  and  Martin  and  Ray  had  captured  a  goodly 
string  of  trout  and  the  camp-fire  was  al\?^t  >>*'• 
wildwood  life  seemed  absolutely  perfect,  to  the 
young  folks  at  least. 

Chip  also  showed  one  of  the  best  features  of  her 
training.  She  wanted  to  help  everybody  and  do 
everything,  and  Levi,  who  always  did  the  cooking, 
was  importuned  to  let  her  help.  Strong  as  a  young 
Amazon,  she  fetched  and  carried  like  a  man,  and 
the  one  thing  that  gladdened  her  most  was  per- 
mission to  work. 

When  supper  was  over  came  the  lounging  beside 
the  cheerful  fire,  and  as  the  shadows  thickened, 
forth  came  Ray's  banjo  once  more,  and  with  it  the 
light  of  admiration  in  Chip's  eyes. 

All  that  day  he  had  been  her  charming  com- 
panion; his  open,  manly  face,  his  bright  brown 
eyes,  had  been  ever  before  her.  His  well-bred 
ways,  so  unlike  all  the  men  at  Tim's  Place,  had 


46  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

impressed  her  as  those  of  a  youth  of  eighteen  will 
a  maid  of  sixteen;  and  now,  with  his  voice  appeal- 
ing to  the  best  in  her,  he  seemed  like  Pan  of  old, 
once  more  wooing  a  nymph  with  his  pipes. 

No  knowledge  of  this  was  hers,  no  consciousness 
of  why  she  was  happy  came  to  her.  She  knew 
what  spites  were;  but  the  god  Pan  and  Apollo  with 
his  harp  were  unknown  forms. 

Neither  did  she  realize  that  born  in  her  soul  that 
day,  on  the  broad  shining  river,  was  a  magic  impulse 
woven  out  of  heart  throbs,  and  destined  to  mete  out 
to  her  more  sorrow  than  all  else  in  her  life  combined. 

She  had  entered  the  wondrous  vale  of  love  whose 
paths  are  flower-strewn,  whose  shores  are  rippled 
with  laughter,  and  whose  borders,  alas !  are  ever 
hid  in  the  midst  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"The  wilderness  allus  seems  full  o'  spectres  'n'  creepin' 
crawlin'  panthers.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  God,  an'  then 
agin,  the  devil."— OLD  CY  WALKER. 

TIM'S  PLACE,  this  refuge  in  the  wilderness,  cleared 
and  colonized  by  Tim  Connor,  was  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  such  pioneer  openings  in  Nature's 
domain  are  apt  to  be.  '  Tim,  a  hardy  Irishman  of 
sod-hovel  and  potato- diet  ancestors,  had  been 
blacksmith  for  a  lumber  camp  on  this  broad  river 
and  at  its  junction  with  a  tributary  called  the  Fox 
Hole  years  before  Chip  was  born. 

When  all  the  adjacent  lumber  was  cut  and  sent 
down  this  river,  the  camp  was  abandoned,  and  then 
Tim  saw  his  opening.  With  his  precious  winter's 
wages  he  purchased  a  large  tract  of  this  now  worth- 
less land,  induced  a  robust  Bridget,  his  brother 
Mike,  and  his  consort  to  join  fortunes  with  him, 
brought  in  cows,  horses,  pigs,  and  poultry,  and 
began  farming  with  the  lumber  camp  as  domicile. 

Another  log  cabin  was  soon  added,  the  first  crop 
of  potatoes  sold  readily  to  other  lumbermen  farther 

47 


48  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

in  the  wilderness,  the  pigs  in  a  sty  adjacent  to  his 
own  throve,  the  poultry  multiplied,  children  came, 
and  the  red-shirted  men  coming  into  the  wilderness 
or  going  out  found  Tim's  Place  convenient. 

With  this  added  business  came  an  enlargement 
in  Tim's  ideas,  the  outcome  of  which  was  a  framed 
house  containing  a  kitchen  and  dining  room  and 
half  a  dozen  others  of  closet-like  proportions,  fur- 
nished with  box-on-legs  beds.  It  was  not  a  pre- 
tentious hostelry.  Paint,  shutters,  and  carpets  were 
absent,  benches  served  for  chairs,  the  only  mirror  in 
it  was  eight  by  twelve  inches,  and  used  in  common 
by  Bridget  and  Mary.  The  toilet  conveniences 
consisted  of  a  wash-basin  in  the  kitchen  sink  and 
a  "last  year's"  towel,  used  semi-occasionally.  A 
long  table  bare  of  cloth  and  set  with  tinware  served 
in  the  dining  room,  warmed  in  winter  by  a  round 
sheet-iron  stove;  above  it  usually  hung  an  array 
of  socks  and  mittens,  and  a  capacious  cook  stove 
half  filled  the  kitchen.  It  was  the  crudest  possible 
backwoods  abode,  and  yet  compared  to  the  log 
cabin  first  occupied  by  Tim,  it  was  a  palace,  and  he 
was  proud  of  it. 

In  autumn  swarms  of  lumbermen  halted  there, 
content  to  sleep  on  the  floor  if  need  be.  In  spring 
they  came  again,  log-driving  down  stream;  later 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  49 

a  few  sportsmen  occasionally  tried  it,  and  all  fared 
alike. 

There  was  no  sentiment  about  Tim.  If  the 
citified  fishermen  objected  to  what  they  found, 
"  Be  gob,  you  kin  kape  away,"  he  readily  told  them. 
A  quarter  for  each  meal,  or  a  night's  lodging,  was 
the  price,  whether  a  bed  or  the  floor  was  provided, 
and  from  early  spring  until  frost  came,  all  the  occu- 
pants went  barefoot. 

When  snow  had  made  the  sixty  miles  of  log  road 
to  the  nearest  settlement  passable,  Tim  invariably 
journeyed  hither  with  horse  and  bob-sled  for  cloth- 
ing and  supplies. 

No  knowledge  or  news  from  the  world  reached 
here,  unless  brought  by  chance  visitors.  Sundays 
were  an  unknown  factor,  the  work  of  clearing  land 
and  potato-raising  became  a  continuous  perform- 
ance from  spring  until  autumn;  and  the  change 
of  seasons,  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  river,  were  the 
only  measure  of  time. 

An  addition  to  Tim's  Place,  other  than  babies 
and  pigs,  came  one  fall  in  an  old  Indian  who,  by 
ample  presents  of  game,  soon  won  Tim's  good-will 
and  help  in  the  erection  of  a  log  wigwam;  but  this 
relic  of  a  vanishing  race  —  reckoned  by  Tim  as  par- 
tially insane  —  remained  there  only  winters,  and 


50  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

when  spring  returned,  disappeared  into  the  wilder- 
ness. 

There  were  also  two  other  occasional  visitors  both 
meriting  description.  First,  a  beetle-browed,  keen- 
eyed,  red-haired  man  garbed  as  a  hunter,  whose 
speech  disclosed  something  of  the  Scotch  dialect, 
and  who,  presenting  Tim  with  a  deer  and  two 
bottles  of  whiskey  as  a  peace-offering  on  his  first 
arrival,  soon  obtained  a  welcome.  He  told  a  plausi- 
ble tale  of  having  been  pursued  for  years  by  enemies 
seeking  his  life ;  how  he  had  been  robbed  and 
driven  away  from  the  settlements ;  and  how  two  of 
these  enemies  had  even  followed  him  into  the  woods. 
He  had  been  shot  at  by  them,  had  killed  one  in 
self-defence,  a  price  had  been  set  upon  his  capture, 
dead  or  alive,  and,  all  in  all,  he  was  a  sorely  abused 
man. 

How  much  of  this  lurid  and  fantastic  tale  Tim 

•  believed,  is  not  pertinent  to  this  narrative.     The 

stranger,  calling  himself  McGuire,  was  evidently  a 

good  fellow,  since  he  brought  good  whiskey,  and 

Tim  made  him  welcome. 

The  facts  as  to  McGuire,  however,  were  somewhat 
at  variance  with  his  assertions.  He  had  originally 
been  a  dive-keeper  in  a  focal  city  for  the  lumbering 
interests  of  this  wilderness,  had  entertained  swarms 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  51 

of  log-drivers  just  paid  off  and  anxious  to  spend 
money,  and  when  the  law  interfered,  he  retreated 
to  a  smaller  town. 

In  the  interval,  strange  to  say,  his  moral  nature 
—  or  rather  immoral  —  suffered  a  brief  relapse, 
during  which  he  persuaded  an  excellent  if  confiding 
young  woman  to  share  his  name  and  infamy. 

His  second  business  venture  came  to  grief,  how- 
ever, and  his  wife  deserted  him  and  met  with  a  fatal 
accident  a  few  years  after.  In  the  meantime  he 
had  kept  busy,  exercising  his  peculiar  talents  and 
tastes  in  an  individual  manner,  and  evading  officers, 
and  his  ways  of  money-getting  were  peculiar  and 
diverse. 

The  Chinese  Exclusion  Act  had  just  become  oper- 
ative, and  the  admission  of  Celestials  into  the  land 
of  the  free,  and  of  good  wages,  became  a  valuable 
matter.  McGuire  conceived  the  brilliant,  if  grew- 
some,  idea  of  passing  "Chinks"  over  the  border 
line  concealed  in  coffins.  It  worked  admirably,  and 
with  accomplices  on  both  sides  to  obtain  certifi- 
Jcates  and  permits,  and  take  charge  of  the  "corpses," 
a  few  dozen  almond-eyed  immigrants  at  two  hun- 
dred dollars  each  obtained  admission. 

In  time,  this  budding  industry  met  an  official 
quietus,  and  McGuire,  with  several  warrants  out 


52  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

against  him,  took  to  the  woods.  He  still  continued 
business,  however,  in  various  ways.  He  smuggled 
liquor  over  the  border  by  canoe  loads,  hiding  it 
at  convenient  points,  to  exchange  for  log-drivers' 
wages.  He  killed  game  out  of  season,  and  dyna- 
mited trout  and  salmon  on  spawning  beds  for  the 
same  purpose;  and,  handy  with  cards,  did  not 
disdain  their  use  in  lumbering  camps. 

In  all  and  through  all  his  various  ways  of  money- 
getting,  one  purpose  had  governed  him  —  that  of 
money-saving.  Trusting  no  one,  as  he  had  reason 
to  feel  no  one  trusted  him,  he  continually  emulated 
the  squirrels  and  hid  his  savings  in  the  woods.  A 
trapper  and  hunter  by  instinct,  as  well  as  thief, 
dive-keeper,  smuggler,  poacher,  and  gambler,  he 
had  in  his  wanderings  discovered  a  cave  in  a  slate 
ledge  upon  the  shores  of  a  small  lake  far  into  the 
wilderness.  It  was  while  trapping  here  that  he 
found  this  by  the  aid  of  a  fox  which,  while  dragging 
a  trap,  became  caught  and  held  in  a  crevasse  while 
attempting  to  enter  it. 

The  fox  thus  secured,  McGuire  made  further 
investigation,  and  by  removing  a  loose  slab  of  slate, 
he  was  enabled  to  enter  a  roomy  cavern,  or  rather 
two  small  ones  partially  separated  by  slate  walls. 
A  little  light  entered  the  larger  one,  through  a  seam 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  53 

crossing  it  lengthwise.  They  were  free  from  mois- 
ture at  this  time  —  early  autumn  —  and  so  secluded 
was  the  spot  that  McGuire  decided  at  once  to  use 
this  place  as  a  hiding- spot  for  his  money.  The 
entrance  could  be  kept  concealed,  its  location  served 
his  purpose,  and,  fox-like  himself,  he  decided  to 
occupy  what  he  would  never  have  found  without 
the  aid  of  a  fox,  believing  no  one  else  would  find  it. 
It  could  also  be  used  as  a  domicile  for  himself  as 
well.  A  fireplace  of  slate  could  be  built  in  it,  an 
escape  for  smoke  might  be  formed  through  the  crack, 
if  enlarged,  and  so  this  cave's  possibilities  increased. 

There  were  still  several  other  advantages.  This 
lake  .was  surrounded  by  precipitous  mountains;  no 
lumbermen,  even,  were  likely  to  operate  there;  the 
stream  flowing  out  of  it  soon  crossed  the  border  line, 
finding  escape  into  the  St.  Lawrence  valley  at  a  point 
some  twenty  miles  distant;  a  short  carry  enabled 
him  to  reach  the  Fox  Hole  which  flowed  by  Tim's 
Place,  and  so  this  served  as  an  excellent  whip  road 
in  case  of  pursuit. 

His  transient  asylum  at  Tim's  Place  also  served 
as  a  vantage  point  in  another  way. 

Here  all  who  entered  this  portion  of  the  wilderness 
invariably  halted,  —  officers  and  wardens  as  well,  — 
and  as  by  this  time  McGuire  had  become  an  outlaw 


54  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

murderer,  with  a  reward  offered  for  his  capture, 
this  outpost  was  of  double  advantage. 

Caution  was  a  strong  point  in  his  make-up,  yet 
he  was  daring  as  well.  He  still  visited  the  settlements 
occasionally,  to  sell  furs  and  obtain  ammunition 
and  whiskey ;  and  when  he,  as  ill  luck  would  have 
it,  happened  there  at  the  time  his  child  was  left 
motherless,  some  malign  impulse  led  him  to  take 
her  to  Tim's  Place  and  leave  her  in  servitude  there. 

There  was  also  another  chance  caller  at  this  outpost 
—  a  half-breed  trapper  and  hunter  named  Bolduc, 
who  had  established  himself  in  a  lone  cabin  on  the 
Fox  Hole,  some  ten  miles  up  from  Tim's  Place.  He 
was  a  repulsive  minor  edition  of  McGuire.  A 
wildcat,  with  laudable  intentions,  had  essayed 
putting  an  end  to  his  career,  and  succeeded  to  the 
extent  of  one  eye  and  some  blood.  He  had  been 
the  accomplice  and  partner  of  McGuire  in  many 
a  whiskey-smuggling  trip.  He  also  dealt  in  this 
pernicious,  but  valuable,  fluid,  was  a  poacher  ever 
ready  to  pot-hunt  for  a  lumbering  camp  in  winter, 
or  find  a  moose  yard  on  snow-shoes,  after  slaughter- 
ing the  helpless  inmates  of  which,  he  would  sell  them 
to  the  busy  wood- choppers. 

He,  too,  could  be  classed  as  brigand  of  the  wilder- 
ness, and  while  no  warrants  or  charges  against  him 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  55 

were  rife,  he  felt  it  wise  to  avoid  meeting  minions 
of  the  law.  Tim's  Place  was  a  convenient  point 
to  obtain  information  as  to  location  of  new  lumber 
camps  or  possible  visits  of  officers .  An  occasional 
bottle  of  whiskey  secured  Tim's  favor.  The  even- 
ings and  meals  there  impressed  Pete  with  the  advan- 
tages of  owning  a  woman's  services,  and  as  Chip 
matured  in  domestic  and  other  possibilities,  a  desire 
to  possess  her  began  to  increase  his  visits. 

His  wooing  met  no  response,  however,  and  when 
persisted  in  always  awoke  on  her  part  the  same 
instinct  once  displayed  toward  him  by  a  wildcat. 

Then  recourse  to  her  father's  greed  for  money 
was  taken,  with  results  as  described. 

The  only  thing  that  saved  poor  Chip  from  pur- 
suit and  capture,  however,  was  his  wholesome  fear 
of  her  finger-nails,  and  the  belief  that  it  was  best 
to  let  her  father  earn  the  balance  of  her  price  and 
fetch  her,  as  agreed.  Acting  upon  this  theory, 
Pete  had  departed  from  Tim's  Place  at  dawn,  to 
await  her  arrival  at  his  cabin,  quite  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  his  bird  had  flown. 

All  that  long  day  he  waited  in  great  expectancy. 
Toward  evening  he  returned  to  Tim's  Place  to  learn 
that  Chip  had  not  been  seen  since  the  previous 
night;  that  her  father  had  also  vanished  without 


56  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

comment.  That  he  was  a  party  to  this  trick  and 
deception,  and,  after  securing  his  three  hundred 
dollars,  had  taken  her  away,  was  Pete's  conclusion, 
and  he  vowed  a  murderous  revenge.  He  returned 
to  his  cabin,  little  realizing  that  twenty  miles  away 
poor  Chip,  faint  with  hunger  and  the  terror  of  a 
vast  wilderness,  was  fighting  her  way  through  bush, 
bramble,  and  swamp  in  a  mad  attempt  to  escape. 
Neither  did  Tim,  while  regretting  the  loss  of  his 
slave,  know  or  care  that  one  of  his  occasional  vis- 
itors was  now  a  mortal  enemy  of  the  other,  and  that 
a  tragedy,  dark  and  grewsome,  would  be  its  outcome. 


CHAPTER   V 

"The  size  o'  a  toad  is  allus  reg'lated  by  the  size  o'  the 
puddle."  —  OLD  Cv  WALKER. 

A  WEEK  was  spent  by  Martin  and  his  party  at  the 
settlement,  during  which  he  acquired  the  title  to 
township  forty- four,  range  ten,  which  included  the 
little  lake  near  the  hermit's  hut,  and  made  a  four- 
square-mile tract  about  it. 

Chip,  thanks  to  Angie,  secured  a  simple  outfit  of 
apparel  and  —  surprising  fact  —  evinced  excellent 
taste  in  its  selection,  thereby  proving  that  eight  years 
of  isolation  and  a  gunny-sack  and  red-shirt  garb 
had  not  obliterated  the  deepest  instinct  of  woman. 

To  Levi,  Martin's  woodwise  helper,  was  left  the 
selection  of  fittings  for  the  new  camp.  A  couple  of 
husky  Canucks  were  engaged  to  bring  them  in  in 
a  bateau,  and  then  the  party  started  on  its  return. 

Only  one  incident  of  importance  occurred  during 
the  wait  at  this  village  known  as  Grindstone.  Angie 
and  Chip  had  just  left  the  only  store  there,  in  front 
of  which  a  group  of  log-drivers  had  congregated, 
when  Angie,  glancing  back,  saw  that  one  of  the 

57 


58  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

group  was  following  them.  She  quickened  her 
pace,  and  so  did  he,  until  just  as  they  turned  into  a 
side  street,  he  passed  them,  halted,  and  turned  about. 

"Wai,  I'm  damned  if  'tain't  Chip,  an'  dressed 
like  a  leddy,"  he  exclaimed,  as  they  drew  near. 

"Hullo,  Chip,"  he  added,  as  they  passed,  "when 
did  you  strike  luck?" 

Chip  made  no  response  and  he  muttered  again, 
"Wai,  I'm  damned,  jest  like  a  leddy!" 

It  was  annoying,  especially  to  Angie,  and  neithei 
of  the  two  realized  how  soon  this  blunt  log-driver's 
discovery  would  reach  Tim's  Place. 

And  now,  leaving  the  bateau  to  follow,  the  party 
started  once  more  on  their  journey  into  the  wilder- 
ness. No  sight  or  sign  of  pursuit  from  the  half- 
breed  had  been  thus  far  observed.  A  few  idle 
lumbermen  in  the  village  —  the  only  visible  con- 
nection between  the  vast  forest  and  a  busy  world 
—  were  little  thought  of,  as  their  canoes  crept 
slowly  up  the  narrowing  river  and  gave  no  hint  of 
interference  from  this  low  brute  to  any  one  except 
Levi. 

He,  however,  seldom  speaking,  but  ever  acting, 
kept  watch  and  ward  continually.  At  every  bend 
of  the  stream  his  eyes  were  alert  to  catch  the  first 
sight  of  a  down- coming  canoe  in  time  to  conceal 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  59 

Chip,  as  he  decided  must  be  done.  When  night 
camps  were  made,  a  site  at  the  head  of  the  lagoon 
or  up  some  tributary  stream  was  selected,  and  while 
not  even  hinting  his  reason  for  this,  he  felt  it  wise. 
As  they  drew  near  to  Tim's  Place,  it  began  to  occur 
to  Martin  that  Chip's  presence  had  best  be  concealed 
until  that  point  was  passed.  He  also  desired  to 
learn  the  situation  there.  He  had  always  halted 
at  this  clearing  in  all  his  up-river  journeys,  so  far, 
usually  to  buy  pork  and  potatoes,  and  he  now  in- 
tended to  do  so  again.  He  also  felt  it  imperative 
to  conceal  Chip  in  Ray's  canoe,  before  they  reached 
Tim's  Place,  and. let  Ray  paddle  slowly  on  while 
the  halt  was  made.  But  Levi  dissented. 

"Tain't  best,"  he  said,  "to  let  Tim  know  there's 
two  canoes  of  us  and  one  not  stoppin'.  It'll  make 
him  s'picious  o'  suthin,  'n'  what  he  'spects,  Pete'll 
find  out.  I  callate  we'd  best  pass  thar  in  the  night, 
leave  the  wimmen  above,  'n'  you  'n'  I  go  back  'n'  git 
what  we  want." 

"But  what  about  the  Canucks  following  us  with 
the  bateau?"  returned  Martin.  "They'll  tell  who 
is  with  us,  won't  they?" 

"They  didn't  see  us  start,"  answered  Levi,  "'n' 
can't  swear  wimmen  came.  We'll  say  we're  alone,  'n' 
bein'  so'll  make  it  plausible,  'n'  you  might  say  we're 


6o 

goin'  to  build  a  camp  V  'nother  season  fetch  our 
wimmen  in." 

"  But  how  about  our  men,  on  the  return  trip,  after 
finding  we  have  women  at  the  camp?"  rejoined 
Martin.  "They  will  be  sure  to  tell  all  they  know 
on  the  way  back." 

"We've  got  to  keep  the  wimmen  shady,  an'  fool 
Jem,"  answered  Levi.  And  so  his  plan  was  adopted. 

It  was  in  the  early  hours  of  morning  when  the 
two  canoes  crept  noiselessly  past  Tim's  Place.  The 
stars  barely  outlined  the  river's  course,  the  frame 
dwelling,  log  cabin,  and  stump- dotted  slope  back 
of  them.  All  the  untidiness  existent  about  this 
dwelling  was  hid  in  darkness,  and  only  the  faint 
sounds  and  odors  betrayed  these  conditions.  But 
every  eye  and  ear  in  the  two  canoes  was  alert,  pad- 
dles were  dipped  without  sound,  and  Chip's  heart 
was  beating  so  loudly  that  it  seemed  to  her  Tim  and 
all  his  family  must  be  awakened.  Her  recent  escape 
from  this  spot  and  all  the  reasons  forcing  it,  the 
fear  that  both  her  father  and  the  half-breed  might 
even  now  be  there,  added  dread;  and  not  until  a 
bend  hid  even  the  shadowy  view  of  this  plague  spot 
did  she  breathe  easier. 

"I  was  nigh  skeered  to  death,"  she  whispered 
to  Ray  when  safety  seemed  assured,  "an*  if  ever 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  6 1 

Pete  finds  I'm  up  whar  the  folks  is  goin',  I'm  a 
goner." 

"Oh,  we'll  take  care  of  you,"  returned  that  boy, 
with  the  boundless  confidence  of  youth;  " my  uncle 
can  shoot  as  well  as  any  one,  and  then  Old  Cy  is  up 
at  the  camp,  and  he's  a  wonder  with  a  rifle.  Why, 
I've  seen  him  hit  a  crow  a  half-mile  off!" 

Smoke  was  ascending  from  the  chimney,  and  the 
rising  sun  was  just  visible  when  Martin  and  Levi 
returned  to  Tim's.  Mike  was  out  in  an  enclosure, 
milking ;  Tim  was  back  of  the  house,  preparing  the 
pigs'  breakfast.  The  pigs  were  squealing,  and  a 
group  of  unwashed  children  were  watching  opera- 
tions, when  Martin  appeared.  A  pleasant  "Good 
morning"  from  him  and  a  gruff  one  from  Tim  was 
the  introduction,  and  then  that  stolid  pioneer  started 
for  the  sty.  Not  even  the  unusual  event  of  a  caller 
could  hinder  him  from  the  one  duty  he  most  enjoyed, 
—  the  care  of  his  beloved  swine. 

"You  have  some  nice  thrifty  pigs,"  began  Martin, 
when  the  pen  was  reached,  desiring  to  placate  Tim. 

"They  are  thot,"  he  returned. 

"My  guide  and  I  are  on  our  way  into  the  woods, 
to  build  a  camp,"  continued  Martin,  anxious  to 
have  his  errand  over  with,  "and  we  halted  to  buy  a 
few  potatoes  of  you  and  some  pork.  I  have  a  couple 


62  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

of  men  following  with  a  bateau,"  he  continued, 
after  pausing  for  a  reply  which  did  not  come;  "they 
will  be  along  in  a  day  or  two  with  most  of  our  sup- 
plies ;  but  I  felt  sure  I  could  get  some  extra  good 
pork  of  you  and  some  choice  potatoes." 

"You  kin  thot  same,"  replied  Tim,  his  demeanor 
obviously  softening  under  this  flattery,  and  so  busi- 
ness relations  were  established. 

Martin  had  intended  asking  some  cautious  ques- 
tion regarding  Chip  or  her  father;  but  Tim's  surly 
face,  his  unresponsive  manner,  and  a  mistrust  of 
its  wisdom  prevented.  He  was  blunt  of  speech, 
almost  to  the  verge  of  insolence,  and  the  arrival  of 
Martin  with  all  his  polite  words  evoked  not  a  ves- 
tige of  welcome;  and  yet  back  of  those  keen  gray 
eyes  of  his  a  deal  of  cunning  might  lurk,  thought 
Martin. 

Two  slovenly  women  peered  out  of  back  door  and 
window  while  the  interview  was  in  progress.  Mike 
came  and  looked  on  in  silence  ;  two  of  the  oldest 
children  were  down  by  the  canoe  where  Levi  waited ; 
the  rest,  open-eyed  and  astonished,  seemed  likely 
to  be  trodden  on  by  some  one  each  moment.  When 
the  stores  were  secured  and  paid  for,  and  Martin 
had  pushed  off  with  Levi,  he  realized  something  of 
the  life  Chip  must  have  led  there. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  63 

He  had  intended  not  only  to  obtain  potatoes, 
but  some  information  of  value.  He  obtained  the 
goods,  paying  a  thrifty  price,  also  a  good  bit  of 
cold  shoulder,  and  that  was  all. 

But  Levi,  shrewd  woodsman  that  he  was,  fared 
better. 

"I  larned  Chip's  gone  off  with  old  McGuire, " 
he  asserted  with  a  quiet  smile  when  they  were  well 
away,  "an'  that  Pete's  swearin'  murder  agin  him." 

"And  how?"  responded  Martin,  in  astonish- 
ment. "I  felt  that  silence  was  golden  with  that 
surly  chap,  and  didn't  ask  a  question." 

"I'm glad,"  rejoined  Levi.  "I  wanted  to  tell  you 
not  to,  and  I've  larned  all  we  want.  Children 
are  easy  to  pump,  an'  I  did  it  'thout  wakin'  a  hint 
o'  'spicion.  Tim's  folks  all  believe  Chip's  gone 
with  her  dad.  Pete  thinks  so,  an'  is  watchin' 
for  him  with  a  gun,  I  'spect,  an'  if  so,  the  sooner 
they  meet,  the  better." 

It  was  gratifying  news  to  Martin,  and  when  the 
other  canoe  was  reached,  the  two  again  pushed  on, 
with  Martin,  at  least,  feeling  that  the  ways  of  Fate 
might  prove  acceptable. 

Three  days  more  were  consumed  in  reaching 
the  lake  now  owned  by  him,  fortthe  river  was  low, 
carries  had  to  be  made  around  two  rapids,  and 


64  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

when  at  last  the  sequestered,  forest- bordered  sheet 
of  water  was  being  crossed,  Martin  wished  some 
titanic  hand  might  raise  an  impassable  barrier 
about  his  possessions. 

Old  Cy's  joy  at  their  return  was  almost  hilari- 
ous. To  a  man  long  past  the  spasmodic  exuberance 
of  youth,  loving  nature  and  the  wild  as  few  do, 
the  six  months  here  with  the  misanthropic  old 
hermit,  then  a  month  of  more  cheerful  companion- 
ship, followed  by  the  departure  of  Martin  and  Angie, 
made  this  forest  home-coming  doubly  welcome. 

But  Chip's  appearance,  and  the  somewhat  thrill- 
ing episode  of  her  escape  from  Tim's  Place  and 
her  rescue,  astonished  him.  Like  all  old  men 
who  are  childless,  a  young  girl  and  her  troubles 
touched  a  responsive  chord  in  his  heart,  and  on 
the  instant  Chip's  unfortunate  condition  found 
sympathy.  Her  bluntly  told  story,  with  all  its 
details,  held  him  spellbound.  He  laughed  over 
her  description  of  spites,  and  when  she  seemed 
hurt  at  this  seeming  levity,  he  assured  her  that 
spites  were  a  reality  in  the  woods  —  he  had  seen 
hundreds  of  them.  It  was  not  long  ere  he  had 
won  her  confidence  and  good-will,  as  he  had  Ray's, 
and  then  he  took  Martin  aside. 

"That  gal's  chaser's  bin  here  'bout  a  week  ago," 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  65 

he  said,  "an'  the  worst-lookin'  cuss  I  ever  seen. 
I  know  from  his  description  'twas  him.  He  kept 
quizzin'  me  ez  to  how  long  we'd  been  here,  if  I  knew 
McGuire,  or  had  seen  him  lately,  until  I  got  sorter 
riled  'n'  began  to  string  him.  I  told  him  finally 
that  I'd  been  foolin'  all  'long;  that  McGuire  was  a 
friend  o'  mine;  that  he'd  been  here  a  day  or  two 
afore,  borrowed  some  money  'n'  lit  out  fer  Canada, 
knowin'  there  was  a  bad  man  arter  him.  Then 
this  one-eyed  gazoo  got  mad,  real  mad,  'n'  said 
things,  an'  then  he  cleared  out." 

When  Martin  explained  the  situation,  as  he 
now  did,  Old  Cy  chuckled. 

"'Tain't  often  one  shoots  in  the  dark  'n'  makes 
a  bull's  eye,"  he  said. 

"I  think  you  and  I  had  better  keep  mum  about 
this  half-breed's  call,"  Martin  added  quietly, 
"and  if  Angie  mentions  it,  you  needn't  say  that 
you  know  who  he  was.  It  will  only  make  my 
wife  and  the  girl  nervous." 

The  two  tents  were  now  pitched  at  the  head  of 
a  cove,  some  rods  away  from  the  hermit's  hut, 
and  well  out  of  sight  from  the  landing,  and  to 
these  both  Angie  and  Chip  were  assured  they 
must  flee  as  soon  as  the  expected  bateau  entered 
the  lake,  and  remain  secluded  until  it  had  departed. 


66  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

In  a  way,  it  was  a  ticklish  situation.  All  knowl- 
edge that  this  waif  was  with  Martin's  party  must 
be  kept  from  Tim's  Place  and  this  half-breed, 
or  she  wouldn't  be  safe  an  hour;  and  until  the 
Canucks  had  come  and  gone,  she  must  be  kept 
hidden.  Another  and  quite  a  serious  annoyance 
to  Martin  was  the  fact  that  he  had  counted  on 
these  two  men  as  helpers  in  cutting  and  hauling 
logs  for  this  new  camp.  Only  man-power  was 
available,  and  to  move  logs  a  foot  in  diameter  and 
twenty  feet  long,  in  midsummer,  was  no  easy 
task;  but  Levi,  more  experienced  in  camp- build- 
ing, made  light  of  it. 

"We'll  cut  the  logs  we  need,  clus  to  the  lake," 
he  said,  "float  'em  'round,  'n'  roll  'em  up  on  skids. 
It's  easy  'nough,  'n'  we  don't  need  them  Canuckers 
round  a  minit. " 

It  was  four  days  of  keen  suspense  to  Chip  before 
they  appeared.  Neither  she  nor  Angie  left  the 
closed  tent  while  they  remained  over  night,  or 
until  they  had  been  gone  many  hours,  and  then 
every  one  felt  easier. 

The  ringing  sound  of  axes  now  began  to  echo  over 
the  rippled  lake,  logs  were  towed  across  with  canoes, 
a  cellar  under  the  new  cabin  site  was  excavated,  and 
home-building  in  the  wilderness  went  merrily  on. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  67 

While  the  men  worked,  Angie  and  Chip  were 
not  idle.  Not  only  did  they  have  meals  to  prepare 
over  a  rude  out-door  fireplace,  but  they  gathered 
grass  and  moss  for  beds,  wove  a  hammock  and 
rustic  chair  seats  out  of  sedge  grass,  and  countless 
other  useful  aids. 

Chip  was  especially  helpful  and  more  grateful 
than  a  dog  for  any  and  all  consideration.  Not 
a  step  that  she  could  take  or  a  bit  of  work  that  she 
could  do  was  left  to  Angie;  her  interest  and  do- 
all-she-could  desire  never  flagged,  and  from  early 
morn  until  the  supper  dishes  were  washed  and 
wiped,  Chip  was  busy. 

But  Martin,  and  especially  Levi,  had  other 
causes  for  worry  than  those  which  camp-build- 
ing entailed.  The  fact  that  this  "Pernicious 
Pete,"  as  Angie  had  once  called  him,  would 
soon  learn  of  their  presence  here,  and  hating 
all  law-abiding  people,  as  such  forest  brigands 
always  do,  would  naturally  seek  to  injure  them, 
was  one  cause.  Then,  there  were  so  many  ways 
by  which  he  could  do  harm.  A  fire  started  at 
one  corner  of  the  hut  at  midnight,  the  same  Indian- 
like  malice  applied  to  their  two  tents,  the  steal- 
ing of  their  canoes  or  the  gashing  of  them  with 
a  hunting-knife,  and  countless  other  methods  of 


68  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM?S   PLACE 

venting  spite,  presented  themselves.  In  a  way, 
they  were  helpless  against  such  a  night- prowling 
enemy.  Over  one  hundred  miles  separated  them 
from  civilization  and  all  assistance;  an  impass- 
able wilderness  lay  between.  The  stream  and 
their  canoes  were  the  only  means  of  egress.  These 
valuable  craft  were  left  out  of  sight  and  sound 
each  night,  on  the  lake  shore,  and  so  their  vulner- 
ability on  all  sides  was  manifest. 

Then,  Chip's  presence  was  an  added  danger. 
If  once  this  brute  found  that  she  was  here,  there 
was  no  limit  to  what  he  would  do  to  secure  her 
and  take  revenge.  They  had  smuggled  her  past 
Tim's  Place,  "but  concealment  here  was  impos- 
sible; if  ever  this  half-breed  returned,  she  would 
be  discovered,  and  then  what? 

And  so  by  day,  while  Martin  and  Levi  were 
busy  with  hut-building,  or  beside  the  evening 
camp-fire  when  Ray  picked  his  banjo  and  Chip 
watched  him  with  admiring  glances,  these  two 
guardians  had  eyes  and  ears  ever  alert  for  this 
expected  enemy. 


CHAPTER   VI 

"  It  allus  makes  me  coltish  to  see  two  young  folks  a-wea\in' 
the  thread  o'  affection."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

THERE  were  three  people  at  Birch  Camp,  —  as 
Angle  had  christened  it,  —  namely,  herself,  Ray, 
and  Chip,  who  did  not  share  Martin's  suspicion 
of  danger.  A  firm  belief  that  a  woman's  aid  in 
such  a  complication  was  of  no  value,  coupled  with 
a  desire  to  save  her  anxiety,  had  kept  his  lips  closed 
as  to  the  situation. 

Life  here  at  all  hours  soon  settled  itself  into  a 
certain  daily  routine  of  work,  amusement,  and, 
on  Chip's  part,  of  study.  True  to  her  philan- 
thropic sense  of  duty  toward  this  waif,  Angie  had 
at  once  set  about  her  much-needed  education. 
A  reading  and  spelling  book  suitable  for  a  child 
of  eight  had  been  secured  at  the  settlement,  and 
now  "lessons"  occupied  a  few  hours  of  each  day. 

It  was  only  a  beginning,  of  course,  and  yet  with 
constant  reminders  as  to  pronunciation,  this  was 
all  that  Angie  could  do.  The  idioms  of  Tim's 
Place,  with  all  its  profanity,  still  adhered  to  Chip's 

69 


70  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

speech.  This  latter,  especially,  would  now  and 
then  crop  out  in  spite  of  all  admonitions;  and  so 
Angie  found  that  her  pupil  made  slow  progress. 

There  was  also  another  reason  for  this.  Chip 
was  afraid  of  her,  and  oft  reproved  for  her  lapses 
in  speech,  soon  ceased  all  unnecessary  talk  when 
with  Angie. 

But  with  Ray  it  was  different.  He  was  near 
her  own  age,  the  companionship  of  youth  was 
theirs,  and  with  him  Chip's  speech  was  ready 
enough.  This,  of  course,  answered  all  the  pur- 
poses of  benefit  by  assimilation,  and  so  Angie  was 
well  satisfied  that  they  should  be  together.  Be- 
yond that  she  had  no  thought  that  love  might 
accrue  from  this  association. 

Chip,  while  fair  of  face  and  form,  and  at  a  sen- 
timental age,  was  so  crude  of  speech,  so  grossly 
ignorant,  and  so  allied  to  the  ways  and  manners 
of  Tim's  Place,  that,  according  to  Angie's  reason- 
ing, Ray's  feelings  were  safe  enough.  He  was 
well  bred  and  refined,  a  happy,  natural  boy  now 
verging  upon  manhood.  In  Greenvale  he  had 
never  shown  much  interest  in  girls'  society,  and 
while  he  now  showed  a  playmate  enjoyment  of 
Chip's  company,  that  was  all  that  was  likely  to 
happen. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  71 

But  the  winged  god  wots  not  of  speech  or  man- 
ners. A  youth  of  eighteen  and  a  maid  of  sixteen 
are  the  same  the  world  over,  and  so  out  of  sight 
of  Angie,  and  unsuspected  by  her,  the  by-play  of 
heart-interest  went  on. 

And  what  a  glorious  golden  summer  opportu- 
nity these  two  had ! 

Back  of  the  camp  and  tending  northwest  to 
southeast  was  a  low  ridge  of  outcropping  slate, 
bare  in  spots  —  a  hog-back,  in  wilderness  phrase. 
Beyond  this  lay  a  mile-long  "blow-down,"  where 
a  tornado  had  levelled  the  tall  timber.  A  fire, 
sweeping  this  when  dry,  left  a  criss-cross  confu- 
sion of  charred  logs,  blueberry  bushes  had  fol- 
lowed fast,  and  now  those  luscious  berries  were 
ripening  in  limitless  profusion.  Every  fair  day 
Ray  and  Chip  came  here  to  pick,  to  eat,  to  hear 
the  birds  sing,  to  gather  flowers  and  be  happy. 

They  watched  the  rippled  lake  with  now  and 
then  a  deer  upon  its  shores,  from  this  ridge;  they 
climbed  up  or  down  it,  hand  in  hand;  they 
fished  in  the  lake  or  canoed  about  it,  time  and 
again;  and  many  a  summer  evening,  when  the 
moon  served,  Chip  handled  the  paddle,  while  Ray 
picked  his  banjo  and  sang  his  darky  songs  all 
around  this  placid  sheet  of  water. 


72  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

And  what  a  wondrous  charm  this  combination 
of  moonlight  on  the  lake  and  love  songs  softened 
and  made  tender  by  the  still  water  held  for  Chip ! 
As  those  melodies  had  done  on  that  first  evening 
beside  the  camp-fire,  so  now  they  filled  her  soul 
with  a  strange,  new-born,  and  wonderful  sense  of 
joy  and  gladness. 

The  black  forest  enclosing  them  now  was  sombre 
and  silent.  Spites  still  lurked  in  its  depths  and 
doubtless  were  watching;  but  a  protector  was 
near,  his  arm  was  strong;  back  at  the  landing 
were  kind  friends,  and  the  undulating  path  of 
silvered  light,  the  round,  smiling  orb  above,  the 
twinkling  stars,  and  this  matchless  music  became 
a  new  wonder-world  to  her. 

Her  eyes  glistened  and  grew  tender  with  pathos. 
She  had  no  more  idea  than  a  child  why  she  was 
happy.  Each  day  sped  by  on  wings  of  wind, 
each  hour,  with  her  one  best  companion,  the  most 
joyful,  and  so,  day  by  day,  poor  Chip  learned  the 
sad  lesson  of  loving. 

But  never  a  word  or  hint  of  this  fell  from  her 
lips.  Ray  was  so  far  above  her  and  such  a  young 
hero,  that  she,  a  homeless  outcast,  tainted  by  the 
filth  and  service  of  Tim's  Place,  could  only  look 
to  him  as  she  did  to  the  moon. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  73 

They  laughed  and  exchanged  histories.  Oft- 
times  he  reproved  her  speech.  They  fished,  picked 
berries,  and  worked  together  like  two  big  children, 
and  only  her  wistful  eyes  told  the  other  why  they 
were  wistful. 

Martin,  busy  at  camp-building  and  watching 
ever  for  an  enemy's  coming,  saw  it  not.  Angie 
was  as  obtuse;  the  old  hermit,  misanthropic  and 
verging  into  dotage,  was  certainly  oblivious,  and 
so  no  ripples  of  interest  disturbed  these  workers. 

Such  conditions  were  as  sunshine  to  flowers  in 
aiding  the  two  young  lovers,  so  this  forest  idyl 
matured  rapidly.  Chip,  perhaps  more  imagina- 
tive than  Ray,  since  most  of  her  education  had 
been  the  weird  superstition  of  Old  Tomah,  felt 
most  of  its  emotional  force,  though  unconscious 
of  the  reason. 

"I  dunno  why  I  feel  so  upset  all  the  time  lately," 
she  said  one  afternoon  to  Ray  as,  returning  from 
the  berry  field,  they  halted  on  top  of  the  ridge  to 
scan  the  lake  below.  "Some  o'  the  time  I  feel 
so  happy  I  want  to  sing,  V  then  I  feel  jes'  t'other 
way,  'n'  like  cryin'.  When  the  good  spell  is  on, 
everything  looks  so  purty,  'n'  when  I  come  on  to 
a  bunch  o'  posies,  then  I  feel  I  must  go  right  down 
on  my  knees  'n'  kiss  'em.  When  I  was  at  Tim's 


74  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Place,  I  never  thought  about  anything  'cept  to 
get  my  work  done  'n'  keep  from  gettin'  cussed  'n' 
licked.  I  was  scart,  too,  most  o'  the  time,  'n'  kept 
feelin'  suthin  awful  was  goin'  to  happen  to  me. 
Now  that's  'most  gone,  but  I  feel  a  heartache  in 
place  on't.  I  allus  hev  a  spell  o'  feelin'  so  every 
mornin'  when  I  wake  up  'n'  hear  the  birds  singin'. 
They  'feet  me  so  that  I'm  near  cryin'  'fore  I  git  up. 
You  'n'  Mis'  Frisbie  'n'  everybody's  been  so  good 
to  me,  I  guess  it's  made  me  silly.  Then  thar's 
'nother  thing  worries  me,  an'  that's  goin'  to  the 
settlement  whar  you  folks  is  from.  I  feel  I  kin 
sorter  earn  my  keepin'  here,  but  I  s'pose  I  can't 
thar,  'n'  that  bothers  me.  If  only  you  'n'  all  the 
rest  was  goin'  to  stay  here  all  the  time  'n'  I  could 
work  some,  same  as  I  do  now,  an'  be  with  you  odd 
spells  'n'  evenin's,  I'd  be  so  happy.  It  'ud  be 
jest  like  the  spot  Old  Tomah  said  we're  goin'  to 
when  we  die.  He  used  to  tell  how  'twas  summer 
thar  all  the  time,  with  game  plenty,  berries  ripe, 
flowers  growin',  too,  all  the  year  'round,  'n'  birds 
singin'.  He  believed  thar  was  two  places  some- 
whar:  one  for  white  folks  and  one  fer  Injuns;  that 
when  we  died  we  turned  into  spites,  stayed  'round 
till  we  got  revenge  for  everything  bad  done  us,  or 
got  a  chance  to  pay  up  what  good  we  owed  for." 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  75 

"I  don't  know  where  we  go  to  when  we  quit 
this  world,  and  neither  does  anybody  else,  I  be- 
lieve,"  Ray  answered  philosophically,  and  scarce 
understanding  Chip's  mood.  "I  believe,  as  Old 
Cy  does,  that  the  time  to  be  happy  is  when  we  are 
young  and  can  be;  that  when  we  are  ready  to  leave 
this  world  is  time  enough  for  another  one.  As 
to  your  worrying  about  your  going  to  Greenvale, " 
he  added  confidently,  and  encircling  Chip's  waist 
with  one  arm,  "why,  you've  got  me  to  look  out 
for  you,  and  then  Angie  won't  begrudge  you  your 
keep,  so  don't  think  about  that."  And  then  this 
young  optimist,  quite  content  with  what  the  gods 
had  provided  in  this  maid  of  sweet  lip  and  appeal- 
ing eye,  assured  her  she  had  everything  to  make 
her  happy,  including  himself  for  companion;  that 
all  her  moody  spells  were  merely  memories  of  Tim's 
Place,  best  forgotten,  and  much  more  of  equally 
tender  and  silly  import. 

Not  for  one  instant  did  he  realize  the  growing 
independence  and  self-reliance  of  this  wilderness 
waif,  or  how  the  first  feeling  that  she  was  a  burden 
upon  these  kind  people  would  chafe  and  vex  her 
defiant  nature,  until  she  would  scorn  even  love, 
to  escape  it. 

Just  now  the  tender  impulse  of  first  love  was 


76  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

all  Ray  felt  or  considered.  This  girl  of  sweet 
sixteen  and  utter  confidence  in  him  was  so  enthrall- 
ing in  spite  of  her  crude  speech  and  lack  of  educa- 
tion, her  kisses  were  so  much  his  to  take  whenever 
chance  offered,  and  himself  such  a  young  hero  in 
her  sight,  that  he  thought  of  naught  else. 

In  this,  or  at  least  so  far  as  his  reasoning  went, 
they  were  like  two  grown-up  children  entering  a 
new  world  —  the  enchanted  garden  of  love.  Or 
like  two  souls  merged  into  one  in  impulse,  yet 
in  no  wise  conscious  why  or  for  what  all- wise 
purpose. 

For  them  alone  the  sun  shone,  birds  sang,  leaves 
rustled,  flowers  bloomed,  and  the  blue  lake  rippled. 
For  them  alone  was  all  this  charming  chance 
given,  with  all  that  made  it  entrancing.  For 
them  alone  was  life,  love,  and  lips  that  met  in 
ecstasy. 

Oh,  wondrous  beatitude !  Oh,  heaven-born 
joy !  Oh,  divine  illusion  that  builds  the  world 
anew,  and  building  thus,  believes  its  secret  safe ! 

But  Old  Cy,  wise  old  observer  of  all  things 
human,  from  the  natural  attraction  of  two  chil- 
dren to  the  philosophy  of  content,  saw  and  under- 
stood. 

Not  for  worlds  would  he  hint  this  to  Angie  or 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  77 

Martin.  Full  well  he  knew  how  soon  this  "weavin' 
o'  the  threads  o'  affection,"  would  be  frowned 
upon  by  them;  but  he  loved  children  as  few  men 
do. 

This  summer-day  budding  of  romance  would 
end  in  a  few  weeks,  these  two  were  happy  now  — 
let  them  remain  so,  and  perhaps  in  Chip's  case  it 
might  prove  the  one  best  incentive  to  her  own 
improvement. 

And  now  as  he  watched  them  day  by  day,  came 
another  feeling.  Homeless  all  his  life  so  far,  and 
for  many  years  a  wanderer,  these  two  had  awak- 
ened the  home-building  impulse  in  his.  He  could 
not  have  a  home  himself,  he  could  only  help  them 
to  one  in  the  future,  and  to  that  end  and  purpose 
he  now  bent  his  thought. 

The  weeks  there  with  Ray  had  opened  Old 
Cy's  heart  to  him.  Even  sooner,  and  with  greater 
force,  had  Chip's  helpless  condition  made  the 
same  appeal,  and  as  he  watched  her  wistful  eyes 
and  willing  ways,  in  spite  of  her  speech  and  in 
spite  of  her  origin,  he  saw  in  her  the  making  of  a 
good  wife  and  mother.  Her  heritage,  as  he  now 
guessed,  was  of  the  worst,  her  education  was  yet 
to  be  obtained ;  but  for  all  that,  a  girl  —  no,  a 
child  —  of  sixteen  who  would  dare  sixty  miles  of 


78  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

wilderness  alone  to  save  herself  from  a  shameful 
fate,  was  of  the  metal  and  fibre  to  win,  and  more 
than  that,  deserved  the  best  that  life  afforded. 

How  he  could  at  present  aid  her,  he  saw  not. 
A  few  years  of  help  and  time  to  study  must  be 
given  her,  and  as  Old  Cy  realized  how  much  must 
be  done  for  her  and  how  uncertain  it  was  whether 
Angie  would  find  time,  or  be  willing  to  do  it,  then 
and  there  he  determined  to  share  that  duty  with 
her. 

It  was  midsummer  when  Martin  and  his  party 
returned  to  the  lake  with  Chip.  In  two  weeks 
the  new  log  cabin  —  a  large  one,  divided  into  three 
compartments  —  was  erected  and  ready  for  occu- 
pation, and  so  convenient  and  picturesque  a  wild- 
wood  dwelling  was  it  that  a  brief  description  may 
be  tolerated. 

All  log  cabins  are  much  alike  —  a  square  enclos- 
ure of  unhewn  logs  thatched  with  saplings  and 
chinked  with  mud  and  moss.  A  low  door  of 
boards  or  split  poles  is  the  usual  entrance,  with 
one  small  window  for  light ;  its  floor  may  be  of 
small  split  logs  or  mother  earth,  and  at  best  it  is 
a  cramped,  cheerless  hovel. 

But  Martin's  was  a  more  pretentious  creation. 
Its  location,  well  out  on  the  birch-clad  point,  back 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  79 

of  which  stood  the  hermit's  hut,  commanded  a 
view  of  the  lake.  A  group  of  tall-stemmed  spruce, 
amid  which  it  stood,  gave  shade,  yet  allowed  obser- 
vation. It  was  of  oblong  shape,  with  a  wide  piazza, 
of  white  birch  poles  and  roof  of  same;  two  four- 
pane  windows  to  each  room  gave  ample  light; 
a  small  Franklin  stove  had  been  brought  for  the 
sitting  room,  and  a  cook  stove  occupied  the  "lean- 
to"  cook  room  back  of  the  main  cabin.  Beds, 
chairs,  and  benches  were  fashioned  from  the  plen- 
tiful white  birch  stems,  and  floor  and  doors  were 
of  planed  boards. 

It  was  but  a  crude  structure,  compared  to  even 
the  humblest  of  civilized  dwellings;  and  yet  with 
all  its  fittings  conveyed  into  this  wilderness  in  one 
bateau,  and  with  only  axes,  a  saw,  and  hammer 
for  tools,  as  was  the  case,  it  was  a  marvel. 

Working  as  all  the  men  had  done  from  dawn 
until  dark  to  complete  this  cabin,  no  recreation 
had  been  taken  by  any  one  except  Ray  and  Chip; 
and  now  Martin,  a  keen  sportsman,  felt  that  his 
turn  had  come.  The  trout  were  rising  night  and 
morn  all  over  the  lake,  partridges  so  tame  that 
they  would  scarce  fly  were  as  plenty  as  sparrows, 
a  half-dozen  deer  could  be  seen  any  time  along 
the  lake  shore  —  in  fact,  one  had  already  furnished 


80  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

them  venison  —  and  so  Martin  now  anticipated 
some  relaxation  and  sport. 

But  Fate  willed  otherwise. 

One  of  Old  Cy's  first  and  most  far-sighted  bits 
of  work,  after  being  left  with  the  hermit  the  pre- 
vious autumn,  had  been  the  erection  of  an  ice-house 
out  of  large  saplings.  It  stood  at  the  foot  of  a 
high  bank  on  the  north  of  the  knoll  and  close  to 
the  Jake,  and  here,  out  of  the  sunshine,  yet  handy 
to  fill,  stood  his  creation.  Its  double  walls  of 
poles  were  stuffed  with  moss,  its  roof  chinked  with 
blue  clay,  a  sliding  door  gave  ingress,  and  even 
now,  with  summer  almost  gone,  an  ample  supply 
©f  ice  remained  in  it. 

In  the  division  of  duties  among  these  campers, 
Levi  usually  started  the  morning  fire  while  Old 
Cy  visited  the  ice-house  for  anything  needed.  One 
morning  after  the  new  cabin  was  completed,  he 
came  here  as  usual. 

A  fine  string  of  trout  caught  by  Martin  and 
Ray  the  day  before  were  hanging  in  this  ice- 
house, and  securing  what  was  needed,  Old  Cy 
closed  the  door  and  turned  away.  As  usual 
with  him,  he  glanced  up  and  down  the  narrow 
beach  to  see  if  a  deer  had  wandered  along  there 
that  morning,  and  in  doing  so  he  now  saw,  close  to 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  8l 

the  water's  edge  and  distinctly  outlined  in  the  damp 
sand,  the  print  of  a  moccasined  foot. 

It  was  of  extra  large  size,  and  as  Old  Cy  bent 
over  it,  he  saw  it  had  recently  been  made.  Glanc- 
ing along  toward  the  head  of  this  cove,  he  saw 
more  tracks,  and  two  rods  away,  the  sharp  furrow 
of  a  canoe  prow  in  the  sand. 

"It's  that  pesky  half-breed,  sure's  a  gun,"  he 
muttered,  stooping  over  the  track,  "fer  a  good 
bit  o'  his  legs  was  turned  up  to  walk  on,  and  he 
wore  moccasins  t'other  day." 

Curious  now,  and  somewhat  startled,  he  looked 
along  where  the  narrow  beach  curved  out  and 
around  to  the  landing,  and  saw  the  tracks  led 
that  way.  Then  picking  his  way  so  as  not  to 
obscure  them,  he  followed  until  not  three  rods 
from  the  new  cabin  they  left  the  beach  and  were 
plainly  visible  behind  a  couple  of  spruces,  in  the 
soft  carpet  of  needles,  which  was  crushed  for  a 
small  space,  where  some  one  had  stood. 

Returning  to  camp,  Old  Cy  motioned  to  Levi 
and  Martin.  All  three  returned  to  the  ice-house, 
looked  where  the  canoe  had  cut  its  furrow,  took 
up  the  trail  to  its  ending  beside  the  two  trees,  and 
then  glanced  into  one  another's  eyes  with  serious, 
sobered,  troubled  faces. 


82  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

And  well  they  might ;  for  the  evening  previous 
they  had  all  been  grouped  upon  the  piazza  of  this 
new  cabin  until  late,  while  scarce  three  rods  away 
a  spying  enemy,  presumably  this  half-breed,  had 
stood  and  watched  them. 


CHAPTER    VII 

"  Blessed  be  them  that  'spects  nothin1,  they  won't  git 
fooled."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

CHRISTMAS  COVE  was  never  disturbed  by  aught 
except  small  boats,  and  few  of  them.  It  was  a 
long,  crescent-shaped  arm  of  the  sea,  parallel  to 
the  ocean,  and  separated  from  it  by  a  spruce- clad 
cliff;  its  placid  surface  scarcely  more  than  rippled 
or  undulated  outside,  and  so  shallow  was  it  that 
each  ebb  tide  left  its  sandy  bottom  bare. 

A  stream  found  devious  way  along  this  crescent 
when  the  outflow  left  it  bare.  Mottled  minnows, 
schools  of  white  and  green  smelts,  crabs  of  all 
sorts  and  sizes,  swam  and  sported  up  and  down 
this  broad,  shallow  brook  while  the  tide  was 
away,  and  few  of  human  kind  ever  watched 
them. 

Alongside  this  cove  and  inward  a  dozen  or  more 
brown  houses  and  a  few  white  ones  faced  its  curv- 
ing shore,  a  broad  street  with  many  elms  and  ruts 
between  which  the  grass  grew  separated  the  houses 

83 


84  THE  GIRL  PROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

and  cove,  and  a  small  white  church  with  a  gilt 
fish  for  weather-vane  on  its  steeple  stood  midway 
of  these  dwellings. 

A  low  range  of  green  hills  to  the  northward  of 
this  village  shut  off  the  wintry  winds,  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  street  a  stream  from  a  cleft  in  the  hills 
crossed  it,  and  here  stood  a  mill,  its  roof  green 
with  moss,  its  clapboards  brown  and  whitened 
with  mill  dust,  the  log  dam  above  it  half  obscured 
by  willows.  To  the  right  of  this  a  short  flume 
was  entirely  hidden  by  alders,  and  above  the  dam 
lay  a  pond,  entirely  covered  with  green  lily-pads, 
and  dotted  by  white  blossoms  all  summer. 

Beside  the  mill  and  nearer  the  roadway  stood 
an  ancient  dwelling,  also  moss- coated,  two  giant 
elms  shaded  it,  and  the  entire  impression  con- 
veyed by  the  mill's  drowsy  rumble  and  splashing 
wheel  on  a  hot  August  afternoon  was  —  find  a 
shady  spot  and  take  a  nap. 

These  were  the  summer  conditions  existent  at 
Christmas  Cove.  The  winter  ones  may  be  left 
undescribed. 

Just  beyond  where  the  mill  stream  crossed  the 
road  the  highway  divided,  one  fork  following  the 
trend  of  these  hills  to  where  a  railroad  crossed 
them,  ten  miles  away;  the  other,  running  close 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  85 

to  the  upper  and  marshy  end  of  Christmas  Cove 
to  where  a  spile  bridge  connected  the  two  uplands 
and  thence  over  to  another  village  called  Bayport. 
This,  the  larger  of  the  two,  had  once  contained  a 
shipyard,  now  idle,  a  score  of  its  dwellings  were 
vacant,  and  the  two  hundred  or  more  of  its  popu- 
lation existed  by  farming,  fishing,  lobster-catching, 
and  a  small  factory  devoted  to  the  production  of 
sardines  duly  labelled  with  a  French  name. 

Christmas  Cove,  however,  was  more  respectable, 
with  its  hundred  residents,  mostly  retired  sea  cap- 
tains with  an  income,  and  no  litter  of  lobster  pots 
or  nets  to  obstruct  its  one  long,  narrow  wharf 
which  reached  out  to  deep  water  at  the  mouth  of 
the  cove.  A  few  small  pleasure  craft  were  teth- 
ered to  the  wharf,  and  gardens,  cows,  and  poultry 
were  merely  diversions  here. 

One  other  income  it  had,  however,  which  was  con- 
sidered less  plebeian  than  Bayport 's  —  the  money  a 
score  of  city-bred  people  left  each  summer. 

Keeping  boarders  was  all  right  at  Christmas  Cove. 
It  did  not  smack  of  trade  and  commerce.  No 
smoke  of  engines,  no  dust  of  coal,  no  noise  of  hammer 
and  saw,  were  parts  of  it.  No  odor  from  a  canning 
factory,  no  wrack  of  dismantled  boats,  tarred  nets, 
and  broken  traps,  was  connected  with  it.  The 


86  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

dwellings  at  Christmas  Cove  were  roomy,  few  chil- 
dren were  now  a  part  of  its  population  —  scarce 
enough  to  fill  the  one  schoolhouse  presided  over  by 
Mr.  Bell,  and  so  each  season  a  few  dozen  of  the 
uneasy  horde,  always  anxious  to  leave  home  and 
board  somewhere,  came  here. 

A  daily  stage  line  —  an  ancient  carryall  drawn  by 
one  sleepy  horse  —  connected  this  village  with  the 
railroad.  Its  church  bell  called  the  faithful  to 
Thursday  evening  prayer-meeting  and  Sunday  ser- 
vice with  unfailing  regularity.  Its  one  general  store 
and  post-office  combined,  was  the  evening  rendez- 
vous for  a  score  of  sea  captains  —  grizzled  hulks 
who  had  sailed  into  safe  harbor  here  at  last,  and  who 
watched  the  weather,  discussed  the  visitors,  and 
swapped  yarns  year  in  and  year  out. 

Here  also,  many  years  before,  when  Bayport  was 
more  prosperous,  the  threads  of  a  romance  had  been 
woven,  and  two  brothers,  Judson  and  Cyrus  Walker, 
born  at  Bayport,  and  sailing  out  of  it,  had  paid  court 
to  two  sisters,  Abigail  and  Amanda  Grey,  here  at 
Christmas  Cove. 

It  was,  as  such  sailors'  courtships  ever  are,  inter- 
mittent. Six,  eight,  and  sometimes  twelve  months 
marked  its  interims,  until  finally  only  one  brother, 
Judson,  returned  to  announce  a  shipwreck  in  mid- 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  87 

ocean,  a  separation  of  their  crew  in  two  boats,  and 
Abbie  Grey,  whom  Cyrus  had  smiled  upon,  was  left 
to  wait  and  watch  and  hope. 

In  time,  also,  Judson  and  "Mandy"  joined  for- 
tunes. In  time,  and  after  many  voyages,  during 
which  he  vainly  tried  to  find  some  tidings  of  his 
brother,  Judson,  now  Captain  Walker,  gave  up  the 
sea,  and  with  wife  and  two  young  sons  retired 
inland,  purchased  an  abandoned  farm  in  a  seques- 
tered valley,  and  began  another  life. 

Another  mating  had  also  occurred  at  Christmas 
Cove,  for  Abbie,  the  other  sister  and  the  sweetheart 
of  Cyrus,  giving  him  up  for  lost,  finally  consented  to 
share  the  ancestral  home  of  Captain  Bemis  —  once 
a  sailor  and  now  the  miller,  who  had  exchanged  the 
sea's  perils  for  that  peaceful  vocation. 

His  father  had  ground  grist  here  for  a  lifetime,  and 
passed  on.  His  mother  still  survived  when  Abbie 
Grey,  once  the  belle  of  the  village  and  a  boarding- 
school  graduate,  married  Captain  Bemis,  twice  her 
age,  and  her  old-time  romance  became  only  a 
memory. 

No  children  came  to  fill  this  great,  cheerless  house 
with  laughter.  The  old  mother  was  laid  away  in 
due  time,  Abbie,  once  a  handsome  girl,  grew  portly 
and  became  Aunt  Abbie  to  neighboring  children, 


88  THE   GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

and  finally  all  the  village;  and  disappointed  as  she 
had  cause  to  be,  she  turned  her  thoughts  to  good 
works  and  religion. 

But  Cyrus,  adrift  in  an  open  boat  with  half  the 
crew,  was  finally  rescued  by  a  whaler,  after  starva- 
tion had  left  him  almost  an  imbecile.  A  four-year, 
compulsory  voyage  to  southern  seas  followed;  then 
another  wreck  and  a  year  on  an  island,  and  then  a 
chance  meeting  with  another  sailor  from  Bayport, 
and  from  whom  he  learned  two  unpleasant  facts,  - 
first  that  his  sweetheart,  Abbie  Grey,  was  married; 
and  secondly  that  his  brother  had  been  lost  at  sea. 

One  was  true,  of  course,  and  somewhat  dishearten- 
ing to  Cyrus;  the  other,  as  discomforting,  but  not 
true.  It  was  simply  a  case  of  mistaken  identity, 
his  own  disappearance  being  confounded  with  that 
of  his  brother. 

This  story  served  the  purpose  of  so  affecting 
Cyrus  that  he  resolved  never  to  set  foot  in  either 
Christmas  Cove  or  Bayport,  and  also  never  to  allow 
any  one  there  to  know  that  he  was  alive. 

From  now  on,  also,  he  deserted  the  sea  and  became 
a  wanderer.  He  first  lived  in  the  wilderness,  where 
as  trapper  and  hunter  and  lumberman  he  learned 
the  woodsman's  habits;  and  when  mid-life  was 
reached,  having  become  sceptical  of  all  things,  he 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  89 

finally  settled  down  at  Greenvale.  Here,  loving 
children  and  the  woods,  fields,  brooks,  and  Nature 
more  than  raiment,  religion,  and  respectability,  he 
became  a  village  nondescript,  a  social  outcast,  and 
—  Old  Cy  Walker. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"  The  poor  V  pious  kin  callate  the  crumbs  fallin1  from  the 
rich  man's  table'll  be  few  V  skimpy."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

AN  enemy  we  can  meet  in  the  open  need  not  appall 
us;  but  an  enemy  who  creeps  up  to  us  by  day,  or 
still  worse  by  night,  in  a  vast  wilderness,  becomes  a 
panther  and  an  Indian  combined. 

Such  a  one  had  spied  upon  Martin's  camp  that 
night,  and  all  the  tales  of  this  half-breed's  cunning 
and  fierce  nature,  told  by  Levi,  were  now  recalled. 
Like  a  human  brute  whose  fangs  were  tobacco- 
stained,  whose  one  evil  eye  glared  at  them  out  of 
darkness,  the  half-breed  had  now  become  a  creep- 
ing, crawling  beast,  impossible  to  trail,  yet  certain 
to  bide  his  time,  seize  Chip,  or  avenge  her  loss  upon 
her  protectors. 

Now  another  complication  arose  as  Martin,  Old 
Cy,  and  Levi  left  the  spot  where  this  enemy  had 
watched  them  —  what  to  do  about  Angie  and  the 
girl?  From  the  first  warning  from  Levi  that  they 
were  in  danger  from  the  half-breed,  Martin  had 

90 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  QI 

avoided  all  hint  of  it  to  them.  Now  they  must  be 
told,  and  all  peace  of  mind  at  once  destroyed. 
Concealment  was  no  longer  possible,  however,  and 
when  Angie  was  told,  her  face  paled.  Her  first 
intuition,  and  as  the  sequel  proved,  a  wise  one,  was 
for  them  to  at  once  pack  up  and  quit  the  woods  as 
speedily  as  possible. 

But  Martin  was  of  different  fibre.  To  run  away 
like  this  was  cowardly,  and  besides  he  cherished 
only  contempt  for  a  wretch  who  had  played  the  r61e 
of  this  fellow,  and  was  so  vile  of  instinct.  With 
no  desire  to  do  wrong,  he  yet  felt  that  if  sufficient 
provocation  and  the  need  of  self-defence  arose,  the 
earth,  and  especially  this  wilderness,  would  be  well 
rid  of  such  a  despicable  creature. 

Then  Levi's  advice  carried  weight. 

"We  ain't  goin'  to  'scape  him,"  he  said,  "by 
startin'  out  o'  the  woods  now.  Most  likely  he's 
got  his  eye  on  us  this  minute.  He  knows  every 
rod  o'  the  way  out  whar  we'd  be  likely  to  camp. 
He'd  sure  follow,  an'  if  he  didn't  cut  our  canoes  to 
pieces  some  night,  he'd  watch  his  chance  'n'  grab 
the  gal  'n'  make  off  under  cover  o'  darkness.  We've 
got  a  sort  o'  human  panther  to  figger  on,  an'  shootin' 
under  such  conditions  might  mean  killin'  the  gal. 
We've  got  to  go  out  sometime,  but  I  don't  believe 


92  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

in  turnin'  tail  fust  go-off,  'n'  we  may  get  a  chance  to 
wing  the  cuss,  like  ez  not,"  and  the  glitter  in  Levi's 
eyes  showed  he  would  not  hesitate  to  shoot  this 
half-breed  if  the  chance  presented  itself. 

Old  Cy's  opinion  is  also  worth  quoting :  — 

"My  notion  is  this  hyena's  a  coward,  'n'  like  all 
sich'll  never  show  himself  by  daylight.  He  knows 
we've  got  guns  'n'  know  how  to  use  'em.  The 
camp's  as  good  as  a  fort.  One  on  us  kin  allus  be 
on  guard  daytimes,  an'  when  it's  time  to  go  out  — 
wal,  I  think  we  ought  to  hev  cunnin'  'nuff  'mongst 
us  to  gin  one  hyena  the  slip.  Thar's  one  thing 
must  be  done,  though,  'n'  that  is,  keep  the  gal 
clus.  'T won't  do  to  let  her  go  over  the  hog- 
back arter  berries,  or  canoein'  round  the  lake  no 
more." 

And  now  began  a  state  of  semi-siege  at  Birch 
•Camp. 

Chip  was  kept  an  almost  prisoner,  hardly  ever 
permitted  out  of  Angie's  sight.  One  of  the  men, 
always  with  rifle  handy,  remained  on  guard  —  usu- 
ally Old  Cy,  and  for  a  few  nights  he  lay  in  ambush 
near  the  shore,  to  see  if  perchance  this  enemy  would 
steal  up  again. 

With  all  these  precautions  against  surprise,  came 
a  certain  feeling  of  defiance  in  Martin.  With  Ray 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  93 

for  companion  he  went  fishing  once  more,  and  with 
Levi  as  pilot  he  cruised  about  for  game. 

Only  a  few  more  weeks  of  his  outing  remained, 
and  on  sober  second  thought,  he  didn't  mean  to  let 
this  sneaking  enemy  spoil  those. 

But  Old  Cy  never  relaxed  his  vigil.  This  waif  of 
the  wilderness  and  her  pitiful  position  appealed  to 
him  even  more  than  to  Angie,  and  true  to  the  nature 
that  had  made  all  Greenvale's  children  love  him;  so 
now  did  Chip  find  him  a  kind  and  protecting  father. 

With  rifle  always  with  him,  he  took  her  canoeing 
and  fishing;  sometimes  Angie  joined  them,  and  so 
life  at  Birch  Camp  became  pleasant  once  more. 

A  week  or  more  of  happiness  was  passed,  with  no 
sight  or  sign  of  their  enemy,  and  then  one  morning 
when  Old  Cy  had  journeyed  over  to  the  ice-house, 
he  glanced  across  the  lake  to  a  narrow  valley  through 
which  a  stream  known  as  Beaver  Brook  reached  the 
lake,  and  far  up  this  vale,  rising  above  the  dense 
woods,  was  a  faint  column  of  smoke. 

The  morning  was  damp,  cloudy,  and  still  —  con- 
ditions suitable  for  smoke-rising,  and  yet  so  faint 
and  distant  was  this  that  none  but  the  keen,  obser- 
vant eyes  of  a  woodsman  would  have  noticed  it. 
Yet  there  it  was,  a  thin  white  pillar,  clearly  outlined 
against  the  dark  green  of  the  foliage. 


94  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

Old  Cy  hurried  back,  motioned  to  Levi,  and  the 
two  watched  it  from  the  front  of  the  camp.  Martin 
soon  joined  them,  then  Angie  and  Chip,  and  all 
stood  and  studied  this  smoke  sign.  It  was  almost 
ludicrous,  and  yet  not ;  for  at  its  foot  must  be  a  fire, 
and  beside  it,  doubtless,  the  half-breed. 

"Can  you  locate  it?"  queried  Martin  of  his 
guide,  as  the  delicate  column  of  white  slowly 
faded. 

"It's  purty  well  up  the  brook,"  Levi  answered; 
"thar's  a  sort  of  Rocky  Dundar  thar,  'n'  probably 
a  cave.  I  callate  if  it's  him,  he's  s'pected  a  storm, 
'n'  so  sneaked  to  cover." 

And  now,  as  if  to  prove  this,  a  few  drops  of  rain 
began  to  patter  on  the  motionless  lake;  thicker, 
faster  they  came,  and  as  the  little  group  hurried  to 
shelter,  a  torrent,  almost,  descended.  For  weeks 
not  a  drop  of  rain  had  fallen  here.  Each  morn  the 
sun  had  risen  in  undimmed  splendor,  to  vanish  at 
night,  a  ball  of  glorious  red. 

But  now  a  change  had  come.  Wind  followed 
the  rain,  and  all  that  day  the  storm  raged  and  roared 
through  the  dense  forest  about.  The  lake  was 
white  with  driving  scud,  the  cabin  rocked,  trees 
creaked,  and  outdoor  life  was  impossible.  When 
night  came,  it  seemed  a  thousand  demons  were 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  95 

wailing,  moaning,  and  screeching  in  the  forest,  and 
as  the  little  party  now  grouped  around  the  open 
stove  in  the  new  cabin  watched  it,  the  fire  rose  and 
fell  in  unison  with  the  blasts. 

"It's  the  spites,"  whispered  Chip  to  Ray.  "They 
allus  act  that  way  when  it's  stormin'." 

The  next  day  the  gale  began  to  lessen,  and  by 
night  the  moon,  now  half  full,  peeped  out  of  the 
scurrying  clouds.  At  bedtime  it  was  smiling  se- 
renely, well  down  toward  the  tree-tops,  and  Chip's 
spites  had  ceased  their  wailing. 

Fortunately,  however,  Martin's  quest  for  game 
had  been  successful.  A  saddle  of  venison,  a  dozen 
or  more  partridges,  and  two  goodly  strings  of  trout 
hung  in  cold  storage. 

But  utter  and  almost  speechless  astonishment 
awaited  Old  Cy  at  the  ice-house  when  he  visited  it 
the  next  morning,  for  the  venison  was  gone,  not  a 
bird  remained,  and  one  of  the  two  strings  of  trout 
had  vanished. 

In  front,  on  the  sand,  was  the  same  tell-tale  moc- 
casin tracks. 

"Wai,  by  the  Great  Horn  Spoon!  if  that  cuss 
hain't  swiped  the  hull  business,"  Old  Cy  ejaculated, 
as  he  looked  in  and  then  at  the  tracks.  "Crossed 
over  last  night,"  he  added,  noting  where  a  canoe  had 


96  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

cut  its  furrow,  "an'  steered  plumb  for  my  ice-house ! 
The  varmint!" 

But  Martin  was  angry,  thoroughly  angry,  at  the 
audacious  insolence  of  the  theft,  and  the  thought 
that  just  now  this  sneaking  half-breed  was  doubtless 
enjoying  grilled  venison  and  roast  partridge  in  some 
secure  shelter.  It  also  opened  his  eyes  to  the  fact 
that  this  chap  would  hang  about,  watching  his 
chance,  until  they  started  out  of  the  wilderness,  and 
then  capture  the  girl  if  he  could.  For  a  little  while 
Martin  pondered  over  the  situation  and  then  an- 
nounced his  plans. 

"There's  law,  and  officers  to  execute  it,"  he  said, 
"if  a  sufficient  reward  be  offered ;  and  to-morrow  you 
and  I,  Levi,  will  start  for  the  settlement  and  fetch 
a  couple  in.  I'll  gladly  give  five  hundred  dollars 
to  land  this  sneak  behind  the  bars.  If  he  can't  be 
caught,  we  can  at  least  have  two  officers  to  guard  us 
going  out." 

All  that  day  he  and  Levi  spent  in  hunting.  An- 
other deer  was  captured,  more  birds  secured,  and 
when  evening  came  plans  to  meet  the  situation  were 
discussed. 

"You  or  Ray  must  remain  on  guard  daytimes 
near  the  cabin,"  Martin  said  to  Old  Cy.  "My 
wife  and  Chip  had  better  keep  in  it,  or  near  it  most 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  97 

of  the  time ;  and  both  of  you  must  sleep  there  nights. 
One  or  the  other  can  fish  or  hunt,  as  needed.  We 
must  be  gone  a  week  or  more,  even  if  we  have  good 
luck;  but  fetching  the  officers  here  is  the  best  plan 
now." 

Levi  was  up  early  the  next  morning,  and  had  the 
best  canoe  packed  for  a  hurry  trip  ere  breakfast  was 
ready.  No  tent  was  to  be  taken,  only  blankets,  a 
rifle,  a  bag  of  the  simplest  cooking  utensils,  pork, 
bread,  and  coffee.  A  modest  outfit  —  barely  enough 
to  sustain  life,  yet  all  a  woodsman  carries  when  a 
long  canoe  journey  with  many  carries  must  be  taken. 

There  were  sober  faces  at  the  landing  when  Martin 
was  ready  to  start,  —  Chip  most  sober  of  all,  —  for 
now  she  realized  as  never  before  how  serious  a 
burden  she  had  become. 

No  time  was  wasted  in  good-bys.  Martin 
grasped  the  bow  paddle,  and  with  "Old  Faithful" 
Levi  wielding  the  stern  one,  they  soon  crossed  the 
lake  and  vanished  at  its  outlet. 

And  now,  also,  for  the  first  time,  Angie  realized 
how  much  the  presence  of  these  two  strong  and 
resourceful  men  meant  to  her.  All  that  day  she  and 
Chip  clung  to  the  cabin,  while  Old  Cy,  a  long,  lanky 
Leatherstocking,  patrolled  the  premises,  rifle  in  hand. 

"We  hain't  a  mite  o'  cause  to  worry,"  he  said, 


98  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

when  nightfall  drew  near.  "That  pesky  varmint's 
a  coward,  'n'  knows  guns  are  plenty  here,  an'  we 
folks  handy  in  usin'  'em.  I've  rigged  a  fish  line  to 
the  ice-house  door,  so  it'll  rattle  some  tinware  in  the 
cabin  if  he  meddles  it  again.  I  sleep  with  one  eye 
'n'  both  ears  open,  an'  if  he  comes  prowlin'  round 
night-times,  he'll  hear  bullets  whizzin'  an'  think 
Fourth  o'  July's  opened  up  arly." 

But  for  all  his  cheerful  assurance,  time  passed 
slowly,  and  a  sense  of  real  danger  oppressed  Angie 
and  Chip  as  well.  Ray  shared  it  also.  He  was  not 
as  yet  hardened  to  the  wilderness,  and  like  all  who 
are  thus  tender,  its  vast  sombre  solitude  seemed 
ominous. 

Only  the  hermit,  with  his  moonlike  eyes  and  im- 
passive ways,  showed  no  sign  of  trouble.  What 
this  half-breed  wanted,  other  than  food,  he  seemed 
not  to  understand;  and  while  he  helped  about  the 
camp  work  and  followed  Old  Cy  like  a  dog,  he  was 
of  no  other  aid. 

One,  two,  three  days  of  watchful  guard  and 
evenings  when  even  Old  Cy's  cheerful  philosophy 
or  Ray's  banjo  failed  to  dispel  the  gloom,  and  then, 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting  once  again,  a  canoe  with 
one  occupant  was  seen  to  enter  the  lake  and  head 
for  the  landing. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"The  more  I  see  o'  the  world,  the  better  I  like  the 
woods."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

MARTIN'S  journey  to  the  settlement  was  a  rushing 
one.  The  first  day  they  wielded  paddles  without 
rest,  and  aided  by  the  current  made  rapid  progress. 
Both  carries  were  passed  before  sunset,  a  halt  made 
for  a  supper  of  frizzled  pork,  coffee,  and  hard  tack; 
then  on  again  by  moonlight,  and  not  until  wearied 
to  the  limit  at  almost  midnight  did  they  pause,  and 
hiding  themselves  in  the  entrance  to  an  old  tote 
road,  they  slept  the  sleep  of  weariness. 

Tim's  Place  was  sighted  the  next  day,  and  now, 
at  Levi's  suggestion,  Martin  lay  down  in  the  canoe 
as  they  passed  it,  concealed  beneath  a  blanket. 

"It's  best  to  be  keerful,"  Levi  said,  when  pro- 
posing this ;  "I  wouldn't  trust  Tim  a  minute.  Most 
likely  he's  found  out  whar  the  gal  is,  an'  knows  what 
Pete's  up  to.  The  two  are  cahoots  together,  'n'  if 
Tim  saw  you  an'  I  both  leavin',  no  tellin'  what'd 
happen." 

The  journey  from  here  on  was  slower,  as  no  cur- 

99 


100  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

rent  aided,  and  yet  in  three  days  and  nights  of 
paddling,  Martin  and  Levi  covered  that  hundred- 
mile  journey  and  reached  the  settlement. 

A  stage  and  rail  journey,  consuming  one  day  and 
night  more,  enabled  Martin  to  reach  the  man  he 
wanted  —  a  well-informed  and  fearless  officer  named 
Hersey,  and  then,  securing  an  assistant  and  a  war- 
rant for  one  Pete  Bolduc,  on  the  charge  of  theft, 
the  three  returned  to  the  settlement  where  Levi  had 
waited. 

"I'm  glad  to  get  track  of  this  half-breed,"  Hersey 
said  on  the  way.  "He  has  been  the  pal  of  the  noto- 
rious McGuire  for  many  years,  and  besides  has  been 
smuggling  whiskey  into  lumber  camps  and  slaugh- 
tering game  out  of  season  all  the  time.  Like 
McGuire,  he  is  hard  to  locate.  No  guide  or  lum- 
berman dare  betray  him,  and  so  it's  a  fruitless  task 
to  try  to  catch  either.  We  have  been  after  this 
McGuire  for  years.  He  killed  one  deputy  and 
wounded  another,  as  you  may  have  heard.  This 
Bolduc  is  a  cat  of  the  same  color,  but  less  coura- 
geous, I  fancy,  and  yet  as  hard  to  catch.  I  think,  for 
the  sake  of  your  guide,"  he  added,  "we'd  better  not 
enter  the  woods  together.  You  two  go  on,  saying 
nothing.  My  mate  and  I  will  say  we  are  on  a  pleas- 
ure trip,  and  follow  and  overtake  you  in  a  few  hours. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  101 

This  will  protect  your  man,  and  evade  suspicion. 
Even  these  people  at  the  settlement  are  half-hearted 
in  aiding  an  officer.  Most  of  them  are  fearful  of 
house  or  barn  burning  if  they  give  any  information 
to  us,  a  few  are  in  secret  league  with  these  outlaws ; 
and  so  you  see  our  position." 

Martin  saw,  and  marvelled  that  any  of  the  simple, 
honest  dwellers  at  this  small  settlement,  law-abiding 
as  they  seemed,  would  either  aid  or  warn  so  red- 
handed  a  criminal  as  McGuire. 

That  fear  of  consequences  might  influence  them,, 
was  possible,  and  yet  all  the  more  reason  for 
assisting  the  law  in  ridding  the  forest  of  two  such 
criminals. 

But  Martin,  thorough  sportsman  that  he  was,  and 
keen  to  all  the  world's  affairs,  understood  but  little 
of  the  conditions  existent  in  the  wilderness,  or  about 
the  lives  and  morals  of  those  who  find  a  living 
thus. 

He  knew,  as  all  do,  that  a  few  thousand  lumber- 
men entered  each  autumn,  and,  much  to  his  regret, 
made  steady  inroads  toward  its  despoilment.  He 
knew,  also,  that  these  men  included  many  of  excel- 
lent habits  —  sober,  industrious  workers  with  fami- 
lies which  they  cheerfully  supported,  and  that  there 
were  also  many  among  them  whose  sole  ambition 


102  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

was  to  earn  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  a  season  of 
hard  work,  that  they  might  spend  it  in  a  few  weeks, 
or  even  days,  of  drunken  debauchery. 

He  was  well  aware  that  a  few  wandering  hunters 
and  trappers  plied  their  calling  here,  and  many  of 
a  mixed  occupation,  guiding  sportsmen  like  him- 
self in  season,  were  engaged  in  lumbering  or  farming 
between  times.  This  mixed  and  transient  popula- 
tion, he  knew,  were  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
the  average  of  such  pioneers  —  good-natured  and 
good-hearted,  though  somewhat  lax  in  speech  and 
morals. 

What  he  did  not  know,  however,  was  that  a  few 
unscrupulous  and  disreputable  men,  half  gamblers, 
half  dive-keepers,  followed  these  lumbermen  into 
camp  as  ostensible  hunters  and  trappers,  but  really 
gamblers,  ready  to  turn  a  trick  at  cards,  convoy  a 
keg  of  whiskey  in,  or  follow  a  moose  on  snow-shoes, 
kill  and  sell  him,  as  occasion  offered.  Or  that, 
when  spring  opened  the  streams,  these  same  itinerant 
purveyors  of  vice  spotted  their  possible  victims, 
as  a  bunco  man  does  a  rural  "good  thing"  visiting 
the  metropolis,  and  when  they  reached  town  or 
city,  steered  them  where  harpies  waited  to  share 
the  spoil.  A  brief  explanation  of  these  facts  were 
furnished  to  Martin  by  Warden  Hersey,  when, 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  103 

after  overhauling  him,  the  parties  joined  about  one 
camp-fire. 

"We  have,"  Hersey  said,  "in  the  case  of  this 
McGuire,  a  fair  sample  of  the  outcome  liable  to 
follow  or  attach  to  a  man  who  makes  a  business  of 
preying  upon  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  lumbering 
class.  It  is  a  sort  of  evolution  in  law-evasion  and 
opportunity,  encouraged  and  aided  by  the  animosity 
which  is  sure  to  arise  between  the  lumberman  and  us, 
whose  duty  it  is  to  enforce  the  fish  and  game  laws. 
These  lumbermen,  or  a  majority  of  them,  feel  and 
believe  that  the  forest  and  all  it  contains  is  theirs  by 
natural  right ;  that  no  law  forbidding  them  to  obtain 
all  the  fish  and  game  they  can,  is  just ;  that  such  laws 
are  enacted  and  accrue  for  the  sole  benefit  of  city 
sportsmen  who,  like  yourself,  come  here  for  rest  and 
recreation.  It  is  all  a  wrong  conclusion,  as  we  know, 
and  yet  it  exists.  Now  come  these  leeches  like 
McGuire,  who  prey  upon  this  hard-working  class. 
Such  as  McGuire  foster  the  prejudice  and  antago- 
nism of  the  lumbermen  in  all  ways  possible,  arguing 
that  moose  and  deer  are  the  natural  perquisites  of 
those  who  go  into  the  woods  for  a  livelihood,  and 
belong  to  them  as  much  as  the  trees  which  they  have 
paid  stumpage  to  cut.  Also  that  we  who  come  in 
to  execute  the  laws  are  interlopers,  who  draw  pay 


104  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

for  the  sole  purpose  of  robbing  them  of  their  rights. 
Of  course,  we  receive  no  welcome  at  a  lumbering 
camp,  and  not  one  iota  of  information  as  to  what  is 
going  on  or  where  a  law-breaker  may  be  found. 
More  than  that,  they  will  protect  the  leeches  who 
fatten  on  them  in  every  way  possible,  even  after,  as 
in  McGuire's  case,  they  become  murderers  and  out- 
laws, with  a  price  set  upon  their  capture.  And  here 
comes  in  the  factor  of  terrorism.  A  few  of  these 
lumbermen  might  give  information  from  a  desire 
to  aid  the  law,  or  to  obtain  a  reward,  did  they  not 
know  that  to  do  so  would  expose  them  to  the  in- 
evitable fate  of  all  betrayers. 

"It  is  a  community  of  interest,  a  sort  of  free- 
masonry that  exists  between  these  lumbermen  and 
all  who  thrive  upon  their  labors  and  hardships. 
Now  this  McGuire  has  preyed  upon  them  for  years, 
a  notorious  example  of  dive-keeper,  gambler, 
smuggler,  and  pot-hunter.  He  is  now  in  hiding 
somewhere  in  this  wilderness,  or,  maybe,  creeping 
up  some  stream  with  a  canoe  load  of  liquor  bought 
in  some  Canadian  town.  He  will  meet  and  be  wel- 
comed by  any  lumber-cutting  party  just  making 
camp  next  fall,  sell  them  liquor  at  exorbitant  prices, 
shoot  and  sell  them  venison,  and  when  the  snow  is 
deep  enough,  he  will  follow  and  find  moose  yards, 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  105 

and  do  a  wholesale  slaughter  act,  and  not  satisfied 
with  this,  will  absorb  any  and  all  money  these  lum- 
bermen have  left  by  card  games.  And  yet  the 
moment  I  enter  the  woods  to  arrest  him,  their 
camps  are  closed  to  me,  and  word  of  my  coming  is 
passed  along  to  others.  The  guides  even,  who  are 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  you  sportsmen,  are,  many 
of  them,  in  secret  sympathy  with  such  as  McGuire; 
or  if  not,  dare  not  give  any  clews,  and  many  a  wild- 
goose  chase  has  resulted  from  following  their  sup- 
posed information.  Some  of  the  wisest  among 
them  are  beginning  to  realize  that  they  must  co- 
operate with  us  in  the  protection  of  fish  and  game, 
or  their  occupation  will  be  gone.  But  even  those 
sensible  fellows  —  and  they  are  increasing  —  hate 
to  become  informer,  fearing  consequences. 

"There  is  still  another  side  to  this  game  situation," 
continued  Hersey,  filling  and  lighting  his  pipe,  "and 
this  is  our  laws,  or  rather,  the  selfishness  of  our  law- 
makers. We  have  plenty  of  laws  —  and  good 
ones.  We  impose  a  license  tax  upon  all  non-resi- 
dents for  the  privilege  of  shooting  or  fishing.  We 
limit  the  season  and  number  of  moose,  deer,  or  trout 
which  may  be  taken.  This  license,  which  is  all 
right,  produces  an  annual  fund  sufficient  to  employ 
ten  wardens,  where  the  State  only  employs  one. 


106  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

The  result  is  that  this  vast  wilderness  is  so  poorly 
patrolled  that  a  game  warden  is  as  much  of  a  rarity 
as  a  white  deer.  Now  and  then  one  may  be  seen 
canoeing  up  or  down  some  main  stream,  or  loafing 
a  week  or  two  at  some  backwoods  farm  and  having 
a  good  time.  One  may  certainly  be  found  at  all 
points  of  egress ;  but  a  portion  of  the  wilderness  — 
the  greater  way-back  region  —  is  rarely  visited  by 
wardens. 

"There  is  still  one  more  point,  and  that  is  the  pay 
which  wardens  receive.  It  is  so  small  that  capable, 
honest  men  cannot  be  obtained  for  what  the  State 
allows;  and  considering  the  large  sums  raised  from 
this  license  tax,  it  is  a  mere  pittance.  The  result 
is,  we  have  to  employ  a  class  of  men,  many  of  whom 
are  no  respecters  of  the  law  themselves,  or  who  may 
be  bribed." 

It  was  a  full  and  complete  explanation  of  the  con- 
ditions then  existing  in  the  wilderness,  and  as  Martin 
glanced  at  "Old  Faithful"  Levi  lounging  on  his 
elbow,  he  understood  why  that  astute  guide  had 
always  avoided  all  possible  reference  to  McGuire. 

"This  half-breed,  Bolduc,  is  another  sample  of 
his  class,"  continued  Hersey,  "and  while  we  have 
no  criminal  charge,  we  can  prove  we  know  he  is 
a  pot-hunter,  and  I'll  be  glad  to  nab  him,  for  an 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  107 

example.  I  judge  he  is  lurking  about  your  camp, 
watching  a  chance  to  abduct  this  girl,  and  while  it's 
an  unusual  case,  it  may  serve  our  purpose  nicely  — 
a  sort  of  bait,  useful  in  alluring  him  into  our  hands. 
How  we  can  catch  him,  however,  is  not  an  easy 
problem.  He  knows  the  forest  far  better  than  we 
do ;  every  stream,  lake,  defile,  or  cave  is  familiar  to 
him,  and,  cunning  as  a  fox,  all  pursuit  would  be 
useless.  Our  only  hope  is  to  patrol  the  woods 
about  your  camp  as  hunters,  or  watch  for  another 
night  visit,  and  halt  him,  at  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle." 

And  now  Martin  turned  the  conversation  to  a  more 
interesting  subject  —  Chip  herself. 

"I  saw  the  girl  at  Tim's  Place,"  Hersey  said, 
"and  knowing  her  ancestry,  felt  curious  to  observe 
her.  She  appeared  bright  as  a  new  dollar  and  a 
willing  worker  for  Tim.  Of  course,  it  seemed  un- 
fortunate that  she  should  be  left  to  grow  up  there 
without  education;  and  while  her  natural  guardian 
being  an  outlaw  gave  the  State  an  ample  right  to 
interfere,  the  proper  officer  has  never  seen  fit  to  do 
so.  It  has  been  a  case  of  'out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,' 
I  presume,  and  while  we  have  a  law  obliging  parents 
to  send  their  children  to  public  schools  so  many 
months  a  year  until  a  certain  age,  this  is  a  case  where 
no  one  has  seen  fit  to  enforce  it." 


108  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"But  what  about  her  parents?"  queried  Martin, 
curious  on  this  point.  "  Do  you  know  whether  they 
were  legally  married?" 

"Why,  no-o,  only  by  hearsay,"  Hersey  responded. 
"I've  been  told  her  mother  was  a  Nova  Scotia  girl, 
a  mill  worker  in  one  of  our  larger  cities,  and  as  no 
one  ever  hinted  otherwise,  I  think  it  safe  to  assume 
that  they  were  married.  If  not,  there  would  surely 
have  been  some  one  to  spread  the  sinister  fact.  It's 
the  way  of  the  world.  I  presume  Tim  knows  the 
girl's  history,  but  he  is  such  a  surly  Irishman  that  I 
never  questioned  him.  In  fact,  his  surroundings, 
as  you  may  have  noticed,  do  not  invite  long  visits." 

But  no  visit  or  even  halt  at  Tim's  Place  was  now 
considered  advisable.  In  fact,  as  Levi  said,  it  was 
best  to  pass  that  spot  at  midnight.  This  suggestion 
was  carried  out,  and  in  five  days  from  leaving  the 
settlement,  Martin  and  the  officers  made  their  last 
camp  at  the  lake  where  he  had  once  seen  a  spectral 
canoeist. 


CHAPTER  X 

"  A  swelled  heart  may  cost  ye  money,  but  a  swelled  head'll 
cost  ye  ten  times  more."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

AN  unexpected  canoe  entering  a  lake  so  secluded 
and  so  seldom  visited  as  this  lake  must  needs  awaken 
the  keenest  surprise,  and  especially  in  the  case  of  a 
party  situated  as  this  one  was.  Ray,  who  had  just 
returned  from  a  berry-picking  trip  over  at  the  "blow 
down,"  and  Old  Cy,  carrying  his  suggestive  rifle,  were 
at  the  landing  some  time  before  this  canoe  reached 
it,  while  Angie  and  Chip  waited  almost  breathlessly 
on  the  cabin  piazza.  A  stout,  bare-headed  Indian, 
clad  in  white  man's  raiment,  was  paddling.  He 
glanced  at  the  two  awaiting  him  at  the  landing,  with 
big  black,  emotionless  eyes,  and  then  up  to  the 
cabin. 

As  his  canoe  now  grated  on  the  sandy  beach  close 
by,  he  laid  aside  his  paddle,  stepped  forward  and 
out,  drew  his  craft  well  up,  and  folding  his  arms 
glanced  at  Old  Cy  again,  as  if  waiting  for  a  welcome. 
None  was  needed,  however,  for  on  the  instant, 
almost,  came  an  exclamation  of  joy  from  Chip,  and 

109 


110  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

with  a  "Hullo,  Poppy  Tomah,"   she  was  down  the 
bank,  with  both  her  hands  in  his. 

A  faint  smile  of  welcome  spread  over  his  austere 
face  as  he  looked  down  at  the  girl,  but  not  a  word, 
as  yet,  came. 

Old  Cy,  quick  to  see  that  he  was  a  friend,  now 
advanced. 

" We're  glad  to  see  ye,"  he  said,  "an'  as  ye  seem 
to  be  a  friend  o'  the  gal's,  we'll  make  ye  welcome." 

The  Indian  bowed  low,  and  a  "How  do,"  like 
a  grunt,  was  his  answer.  A  calm,  slow,  motionless 
type  of  a  now  almost  extinct  race,  as  he  seemed  to  be, 
he  would  utter  no  word  or  move  a  step  farther  until 
invited.  But  now,  led  by  Chip,  he  advanced  up  the 
path. 

"It's  Tomah,  old  Poppy  Tomah,"  she  said  with 
pride,  as  Angie  rose  to  meet  them,  "and  he's  the 
only  body  who  was  ever  good  to  me." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  Angie  said,  with  a 
gracious  bow  and  smile,  "and  you  are  welcome  here." 

"I  thank  the  white  lady  —  I  not  forget,"  came  the 
Indian's  dignified  answer  with  a  stately  bow. 

Not  a  word  of  greeting  for  Chip  or  of  surprise 
at  finding  her  here  —  only  the  eagle  glance,  accus- 
tomed to  bright  sunlight  or  to  following  the  flight 
of  a  bird  far  out  of  white  man's  vision. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  III 

"We  shall  have  supper  soon,"  Angle  added, 
uncertain  what  to  say  to  this  impassive  man,  "and 
some  for  you." 

It  was  a  deft  speech,  for  Angie,  accustomed  to  take 
in  every  detail  of  a  man  from  the  condition  of  his 
nails  to  the  cut  of  his  clothing,  as  all  women  will,  had 
ere  now  absorbed  the  appearance  of  this  swarthy 
redskin,  and  was  not  quite  sure  whether  to  invite 
him  to  share  their  table  or  say  nothing. 

But  the  Indian  solved  his  own  problem,  for  spy- 
ing the  outdoor  fire  to  which  Old  Cy  now  retreated, 
he  bowed  again  and  strode  away  toward  it. 

"Me  cook  here?"  he  said  to  Old  Cy.  With  an 
"Of  course,  an'  you're  welcome  to,"  the  question 
was  settled. 

Chip  soon  drew  near,  and  now  for  the  first  time 
the  Indian's  speech  seemed  to  return,  and  while  Old 
Cy  busied  himself  about  the  cooking,  these  two  began 
to  visit. 

Chip,  as  might  be  expected,  did  most  of  the  talking, 
asked  questions  as  to  Tim's  Place,  when  he  was 
there,  and  what  they  said  about  her  running 
away,  in  rapid  succession.  Her  own  adventures 
and  how  she  came  here  soon  followed,  and  it  was 
not  long  befor  he  knew  all  that  was  to  be  known 
about  her. 


112  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

\ 

His  replies  were  blunt  and  brief,  after  the  manner 
of  such.  Now  and  then  an  expressive  nod  or  grunt 
filled  in  the  place  of  an  ordinary  answer.  He  knew 
but  little  about  the  recent  happenings  at  Tim's 
Place,  as  he  had  stayed  there  only  one  night  since 
Chip  departed  with  her  father  —  as  he  was  told. 
He  had  been  away  in  the  woods,  looking  for 
places  to  set  traps  later,  and  had  no  idea  Chip 
was  here. 

As  to  Pete's  movements,  he  was  equally  in  the 
dark,  and  when  Chip  told  him  what  her  friends  here 
suspected,  he  merely  grunted.  As  he  seemed  to  wish 
to  do  his  own  cooking,  Old  Cy,  having  completed  his 
task,  offered  him  a  partridge  and  a  couple  of  trout 
fresh  from  the  ice-house,  also  pork  and  potatoes, 
and  left  him  to  care  for  himself. 

He  became  more  sociable  later,  and  when  supper 
was  over  and  the  rest  had,  as  usual,  gathered  on  the 
piazza  of  the  new  cabin,  he  joined  them. 

And  now  came  a  recital  from  Ray  of  far  more 
interest  to  these  people  than  they  suspected. 

"I  saw  a  bear  over  back  of  the  ridge  this  after- 
noon," he  said,  "or  I  don't  know  but  it  was  a  wild- 
cat. I'd  just  filled  my  pail  with  berries,  when  way 
up,  close  to  the  rocks,  I  saw  something  moving.  I 
crouched  down  back  of  a  bush,  thinking  it  might  be 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  113 

a  bear,  and  if  it  was,  I'd  get  a  chance  to  see  it  nearer. 
I  could  only  see  the  top  of  its  back  above  the  bushes, 
and  once  I  saw  its  head,  as  if  it  was  standing  up. 
Then  I  didn't  see  it  for  quite  a  spell,  and  then  I 
caught  sight  of  its  back  again,  a  good  deal  nearer,  and 
then  it  went  into  one  of  the  gullies  in  the  hog-back. 
It  didn't  wait  to  see  if  it  came  out,  but  cut  for 
home." 

"Did  this  critter  sorter  wobble  like  a  woodchuck 
runnin'?"  put  in  Old  Cy. 

"No,  it  just  crept  along  evenly,"  answered  Ray, 
"I'd  see  it  when  it  would  come  out  between  the 
bushes." 

"  'Twa'n't  a  b'ar,"  muttered  Old  Cy,  and  then, 
as  if  the  unwisdom  of  waking  suspicion  in  Angle's 
mind  occurred,  he  added  hastily,  "but  mebbe  'twas 
a  doe,  walkin'  head  down  'n'  feedin'." 

No  further  notice  was  taken  of  Ray's  adventure. 
The  sight  of  deer  everywhere  about  was  a  ten-times- 
daily  occurrence,  and  Old  Cy's  dismissal  of  the 
matter  ended  it. 

His  thoughts,  however,  were  a  different  matter. 
Full  well  he  knew  it  was  no  bear  thus  moving.  A 
deer  would  never  enter  a  crevasse,  nor  a  wildcat  or 
lynx  ever  leave  the  shelter  of  woods  to  wander  in 
open  sunlight. 


114  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"  I'll  go  over  thar  in  the  mornin',"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "I  may  git  a  chance  to  wing  that  varmint  V 
end  our  worryin'." 

And  now  Angie,  more  interested  in  spites  and  the 
Weird  belief  which  she  heard  that  this  Indian  held 
than  in  the  sight  of  a  doe,  began  to  ply  Old  Tomah 
with  questions,  and  bit  by  bit  she  led  him  on  toward 
that  subject. 

It  was  not  an  easy  task.  His  speech  came  slowly. 
Deeds,  not  words,  are  an  Indian's  form  of  expres- 
sion, and  this  fair  white  lady,  serene  as  the  moon 
and  as  suave  and  smiling  as  culture  could  make  her, 
was  one  to  awe  him. 

With  Chip  he  had  been  fluent  enough.  She  had 
been  almost  a  prote'ge'e  of  his,  a  big  pappoose  whom 
he  had  taught  to  manage  a  canoe,  for  whom  he  had 
made  moccasins,  a  fur  cap  and  cape,  who  had  lis- 
tened to  all  his  strange  theories  with  wide-open, 
believing  eyes,  and,  best  of  all,  a  helpless  waif  whom 
he  had  learned  to  love. 

But  this  white  lady,  awe-inspiring  as  she  was,  now 
failed  to  induce  him  to  talk. 

Chip,  however,  keen  to  catch  the  drift  of  Angie's 
wishes  and  anxious  to  have  her  own  faith  defended, 
soon  came  to  the  rescue  and  induced  Old  Tomah  to 
speak  —  not  fluently  at  first,  the  "me"  in  place  of 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  115 


"I"  always  occurring,  adjectives  following  nouns, 
prepositions  left  out  in  many  cases;  and  yet,  as  he 
warmed  up  to  his  subject,  his  coal-black  eyes  were 
fierce  or  tender,  and  the  inborn  eloquence  of  his 
race  glowed  in  face  and  speech. 

And  what  a  wild  tale  he  told !  Some  of  it  was 
the  history  of  his  own  race,  beginning  long  before 
white  men  came.  He  related  the  contests  of  his 
people  with  wild  animals,  their  deeds  of  valor,  their 
torturing  of  prisoners,  their  own  scorn  of  death  and 
stoical  endurance  of  pain.  His  own  ancestors  had 
been  mighty  chieftains.  They  had  led  the  tribe 
through  many  battles,  swept  down  upon  their  white 
enemies,  an  avenging  horde,  and  were  now  roam- 
ing the  happy  hunting-grounds  where  he  would  soon 
join  them.  Mingled  with  this  tale  of  warfare  and 
conquest,  and  always  an  unseen  force  for  good  or 
evil,  were  the  spites  —  the  souls  of  all  brute  crea- 
tion. How  they  followed  or  led  the  hunter !  How 
they  warned  their  own  kind  of  his  coming !  How 
they  lured  him  into  unseen  danger,  and  how  they  con- 
tinually sought  to  avenge  their  own  deaths !  There 
were  also  two  kinds  of  them,  —  some  evil  and  the 
others  good.  The  evil  ones  predominated,  the 
good  ones  feared  them,  yet  sought  to  interfere  in  all 
evil  effort.  These  two  hosts  also  had  their  own 


Il6  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

warfares.  They  fought  oftenest  when  storms  raged 
in  the  forest.  Then  they  swept  the  tree- tops  and 
scurried  over  the  hills  in  vast  numbers,  shrieking 
and  screaming  defiance. 

Another  apparition  was  oft  referred  to  in  this 
weird  talk.  A  great  white  spectre  and  chieftain  of 
all  spites,  who  sprang  from  his  abode  in  the  north, 
whose  breath  was  a  blast  of  snow,  howling  as  it 
swept  over  the  wilderness  —  this  ghost,  so  vast  that 
it  covered  miles  and  miles  of  wilderness,  was  al- 
together evil.  It  spared  neither  man  nor  beast. 
The  hunter  trailing  his  game  met  death  on  the  in- 
stant and  was  left  rigid  and  upright  in  his  tracks. 
Squaws  and  children  huddled  in  wigwams  shared 
the  same  speedy  fate.  Lynxes  and  panthers,  deer 
and  moose  by  the  score,  were  touched  by  the  same 
mystic  and  awful  wand  of  death. 

It  was  all  an  uncanny,  eerie,  ghostly  recital;  yet 
all  real  and  true  to  Chip,  whose  eyes  never  once  left 
the  Indian's  face  while  he  was  speaking.  Angie, 
too,  was  spellbound.  Never  had  she  heard  any- 
thing like  it;  and  while  believing  it  was  all  a  mere 
myth  and  legend,  a  superstitious  fancy,  maybe,  of 
this  strange  Indian,  its  telling  was  none  the  less 
interesting. 

Ray  wa:  also  enthralled,  and  he  was  half  convinced 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  117 

that  the  forest  might,  after  all,  contain  spooks  and 
goblins. 

But  Old  Cy  was  only  a  curious  listener.  He,  too, 
had  woven  many  a  fantastic  tale  of  the  sea,  its  storms 
and  monsters  leaping  from  the  crests  of  waves,  and 
all  such  figments  of  the  imagination,  and  this  fable 
was  but  the  same.  The  only  feature  of  passing 
interest  to  him  was  the  fact  that  any  Indian  had 
such  a  vivid  imagination  and  could  relate  such  a 
mingled  ghost  story  so  coherently. 

Old  Tomah'  ceased  speaking  even  more  abruptly 
than  he  began,  then  looked  from  one  to  another  of 
the  group,  perhaps  to  see  if  they  all  believed  him, 
and  then  without  a  word  or  even  "good  night,"  he 
rose  and  stalked  out  of  the  cabin. 

For  a  few  moments  Chip  watched  Angie  and  the 
rest,  anxious  to  see  how  this  explanation  of  her  own 
belief  affected  them,  and  then  Old  Cy  spoke. 

"I'd  hate  to  be  campin'  with  that  Injun,"  he 
said,  "  or  sharin'  a  wigwam  with  him  night-times. 
It  'ud  be  worse'n  a  man  I  sot  up  with  once  that  had 
the  jim-jams,  'n'  I'd  see  spites  and  spooks  for  a  week 
arter." 

Angie's  sleep  was  troubled  that  night,  and  in  her 
dreams  she  saw  white  spectres  and  a  man  with  a 
hideously  scarred  face  and  one  eye  watching  her. 


'     Il8  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

Ray  also  felt  the  uncanny  influence  of  such  a 
tale  and  "saw  things"  in  his  sleep.  But  Old  Cy, 
who  had  securely  barred  the  doors  and  then  had 
rolled  himself  in  a  blanket  with  rifle  handy,  thought 
only  of  what  Ray  had  seen  that  day  and  who  it 
might  be. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  An  honest  man's  the  best  critter  God  ever  made,  an1  the 
skeercest."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER.  / 

OLD  CY'S  suspicions  were  correct.  It  was  neither 
bear,  deer,  nor  wildcat  that  Ray  saw  skulking  along 
the  ridge,  but  the  half-breed. 

Believing  Chip's  father  had  taken  her  out  of  the 
wilderness,  or  more  likely  up-stream  to  find  a  place 
with  these  campers,  he  had  come  here  to  seek  her. 
To  find  her  here,  as  he  of  course  did,  only  convinced 
him  that  his  suspicions  were  true  and  that  her  father 
had  thus  meant  to  rob  him. 

Two  determined  impulses  now  followed  this  dis- 
covery: first,  to  make  the  girl  he  had  bought  a 
prisoner,  carry  her  into  the  woods,  and  then,  when 
the  chance  came,  revenge  himself  on  McGuire.  No 
sense  of  law,  or  decency  even,  entered  his  calcula- 
'  tion.  He  was  beyond  such  scruples,  and  what  he 
wanted  was  his  only  law. 

The  fear  of  rifles,  which  he  knew  were  plenty 
enough  at  this  camp,  was  the  only  factor  to  be  con- 
sidered. For  days  he  watched  the  camp  from  across 

119 


120  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

the  lake,  hoping  that  the  girl  he  saw  canoeing  with 
a  boy  so  often  might  come  near  enough  for  him 
to  make  a  capture.  Many  times,  when  darkness 
served,  he  paddled  close  to  where  the  cabin  stood, 
and  once  landed  and  watched  it  for  hours. 

Growing  bolder,  as  the  days  wore  on,  he  hid  his 
canoe  below  the  outlet  of  the  lake  and  taking  ad- 
vantage of  this  outcropping  slate  ledge  with  its  many 
fissures,  secreted  himself  and  watched. 

But  some  shelter,  at  least  to  cook  and  eat  in,  he 
must  have,  and  this  he  found  in  a  distant  crevasse 
of  this  same  ledge,  and  from  this  he  sneaked  along 
back  of  it  until  he  could  hide  and  watch  the  camp 
below.  From  this  vantage-point,  he  saw  that  the 
girl  no  longer  went  out  upon  the  lake,  but  remained 
near  the  cabin;  then  later,  he  noticed  the  two  men 
leave  the  lake  one  morning.  This  encouraged  him, 
and  now  he  grew  still  bolder,  even  descending  the 
ridge  and  watching  those  remaining  at  the  cabin, 
from  a  dense  thicket. 

From  this  new  post  he  saw  that  but  one  man  seemed 
on  guard,  and  almost  was  he  tempted  to  shoot  him 
from  ambush  and  make  a  dash  to  capture  his  victim. 
Cautious  and  cunning,  he  still  waited  a  chance 
involving  less  risk. 

And  now  he  saw  that  certain  duties  were  performed 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  121 

by  these  people;  that  one  man  and  the  boy  always 
started  the  morning  fire;  that  the  girl  invariably 
went  to  the  landing  alone  for  water,  at  about  the 
same  time.  Here  for  the  moment  she  was  out  of 
sight  from  either  cabin,  and  now  in  this  act  of  hers, 
he  saw  his  opportunity  to  land  from  his  canoe  near 
this  spot  before  daylight,  and  hide  in  the  bushes 
fringing  the  shore  here  and  below  the  bank,  watch 
his  chance  and  seize  and  gag  her  before  an  outcry 
could  be  made.  To  tie  her  hands  and  feet  and  to 
push  the  other  canoe  out  into  the  lake,  thus  avoiding 
pursuit  until  they  could  get  a  good  start,  was  an 
easy  matter. 

It  was  risky,  of  course.  She  might  hear  or  see 
him  in  time  to  give  o/>.e  scream.  The  old  man  who 
had  said  foolish  things  to  him,  and  now  seemed  to 
be  on  guard,  would  surely  send  bullets  after  him  as 
he  sped  away ;  but  once  out  of  the  lake,  he  would  be 
safe.  It  was  a  dangerous  act;  yet  the  other  two 
men  might  return  any  day,  and  with  this  in  pros- 
pect, this  wily  half-breed  now  resolved  to  act. 

Old  Cy  was  up  early  that  fatal  morning.  Some- 
how a  sense  of  impending  danger  haunted  him,  and 
calling  Ray,  he  unlocked  the  cabin  door  and  began 
starting  the  morning  fire.  He  wanted  to  get  break- 
fast out  of  the  way  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  then 


122  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

visit  this  ridge,  feeling  almost  sure  that  he  would 
find  where  this  half-breed  had  been  watching 
them. 

When  Ray  came  out,  and  before  the  hermit  or 
Chip  appeared,  Old  Cy  hurried  over  to  the  ice-house, 
and  now  Chip  came  forth  as  usual,  and  without  a 
word  to  any  one,  she  took  the  two  pails  and  started 
for  the  landing.  It  was,  perhaps,  ten  rods  to  this, 
down  a  narrow  path  winding  through  the  scrub 
spruce.  The  morning  was  fair,  the  lake  without  a 
ripple. 

Above  the  ridge,  and  peeping  through  its  topping 
of  stunted  fir,  came  the  first  glance  of  the  sun,  and 
Chip  was  happy. 

Old  Tomah,  her,  one  and  only  friend  for  many 
years,  was  here.  A  something  Ray  had  whispered 
the  night  before,  now  returned  like  a  sweet  note  of 
music  vibrating  in  her  heart,  and  as  if  to  add  their 
cheer,  the  birds  were  piping  all  about. 

For  weeks  the  cheerful  words  of  one  of  Ray's 
songs  had  haunted  her  with  its  catchy  rhythm :  — 
"  Dar  was  an  old  nigger  and  his  name  was  Uncle  Ned, 
He  died  long  'go,  long  'go." 

They  now  rose  to  her  lips,  as  she  neared  the  lake. 
Here  she  halted,  filled  a  pail,  and  set  it  on  the 
log  landing. 


- 


Nearer  and  nearer  that  unconscious  girl  it  erect' 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  123 

From  behind  a  low  spruce  one  evil,  sinister  eye 
watched  her. 

And  now  Chip,  still  humming  this  ditty,  glanced 
up  at  the  rising  sun  and  out  over  the  lake. 

A  crouching  form  with  hideous  face  now  emerged 
from  behind  the  bush;  step  by  step,  this  human 
panther  advanced.  A  slow,  cautious,  catlike  move- 
ment, without  sound,  as  each  moccasined  foot 
touched  the  sand.  Nearer  and  nearer  that  uncon- 
scious girl  it  crept !  Now  twenty  feet  away,  now 
ten,  now  five ! 

And  now  came  a  swift  rush,  two  fierce  hands  en- 
closed the  girl's  face  and  drew  her  backward  on  to 
the  sand. 

Ray  and  the  hermit  were  beside  the  fire,  and  the 
Indian  just  emerging  from  the  hut  where  he  had 
slept,  when  Old  Cy  returned  from  the  ice-house. 

"Where's  Chip?"  he  questioned. 

"Gone  after  water,"  answered  Ray.  And  the 
two  glanced  down  the  path. 

One,  two,  five  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  a  sudden 
suspicion  of  something  wrong  came  to  Old  Cy,  and, 
followed  by  Ray,  he  hurried  to  the  landing. 

One  pail  of  water  stood  on  the  float,  both  their 
canoes  were  adrift  on  the  lake,  and  as  Old  Cy  looked 
out,  there,  heading  for  the  outlet,  was  a  canoe ! 


124  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

One  swift  glance  and,  "My  God,  he's  got  Chip  !" 
told  the  story,  and  with  face  fierce  in  anger,  he 
darted  back,  grasped  his  rifle,  and  returned. 

The  canoe,  its  paddler  bending  low  as  he  forced 
it  into  almost  leaps,  was  scarce  two  lengths  from  the 
outlet. 

Old  Cy  raised  his  rifle,  then  lowered  it. 

Chip  was  in  that  canoe ! 

His  avenging  shot  was  stayed. 

And  now  Old  Tomah  leaped  down  the  path,  rifle 
in  hand. 

One  look  at  the  vanishing  canoe,  and  his  own, 
floating  out  upon  the  lake,  told  him  the  tale,  and 
without  a  word  he  turned  and,  plunging  into  the 
undergrowth,  leaping  like  a  deer  over  rock  and 
chasm,  vanished  at  the  top  of  the  ridge. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  The  man  that  won't  bear  watchin1  needs  it." 

—  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

WHILE  Chip,  bound,  gagged,  and  helpless  in  the 
half-breed's  canoe,  was  just  entering  the  alder- 
choked  outlet  of  this  lake,  twenty  miles  below  and 
close  to  where  the  stream  entered  another  lake,  four 
men  were  launching  their  canoes. 

"It  was  here,"  Martin  was  saying  to  Hersey, 
•"one  moonlight  night  a  year  ago,  that  a  friend  of 
mine  and  myself  saw  a  spectral  man  astride  a  log, 
just  entering  that  bed  of  reeds,  as  I  told  you.  Who 
or  what  it  was,  we  could  not  guess;  but  as  that 
spook  canoeman  went  up  this  stream,  we  followed 
and  discovered  our  hermit's  home." 

"Night-time  and  moonshine  play  queer  pranks 
with  our  imagination,"  Hersey  responded.  "I'm 
not  a  whit  superstitious,  and  yet  I've  many  a  time 
seen  what  I  thought  to  be  a  hunter  creeping  along 
the  lake  shore  at  night,  and  I  once  came  near  plug- 
ging a  fat  man  in  a  shadowy  glen.  I  was  up  on  a 
cliff  watching  down  into  it,  the  day  was  cloudy,  and 

125 


126  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

'way  below  I  saw  what  I  was  sure  was  a  bear  crawl- 
ing along  the  bank  of  the  stream.  I  had  my  rifle 
raised  and  was  only  waiting  for  a  better  sight,  when 
up  rose  the  bear  and  I  saw  a  human  face.  For  a 
moment  it  made  me  faint,  and  since  then  I  make 
doubly  sure  before  shooting  at  any  object  in  the 
woods." 

And  now  these  four  men,  Levi  wielding  the  stern 
paddle  of  Martin's  canoe,  and  Hersey's  deputy  that 
of  his,  entered  the  broad,  winding  stream.  The 
tall  spruce-tops  meeting  darkened  its  currentless 
course,  long  filaments  of  white  moss  depended  from 
every  limb,  and  as  they  twisted  and  turned  up  this 
sombre  highway,  the  air  grew  stifling.  Not  a  breeze, 
not  a  sound,  disturbed  the  solemn  silence,  and  ex- 
cept for  the  swish  of  paddles  and  faint  thud  as  they 
touched  gunwales,  the  fall  of  a  leaf  might  have  been 
heard.  So  dense  was  this  dark,  silent  forest,  and 
so  forbidding  its  effect,  that  for  an  hour  no  one  scarce 
spoke,  and  even  when  the  two  canoes  finally  drew 
together,  converse  came  in  whispers.  Another 
hour  of  steady  progress,  and  then  the  banks  began 
to  outline  themselves  ahead,  the  trees  opened  more, 
a  sign  of  current  was  met,  and  the  sun  lit  up  their 
pathway. 

By  now  the  spectral  beard  had  vanished  from  the 


CHIP  MCGUIKE  127 

trees,  white  clouds  were  reflected  from  the  still 
waters,  and  the  gleam  of  sandy  bottom  was  seen 
below.  The  birds,  inspired  perhaps  by  the  ab- 
sence of  gloom,  also  added  their  cheering  notes, 
Nature  was  smiling  once  more,  and  not  a  hint  or 
even  intuition  of  the  fast-nearing  tragedy  met  those 
men. 

And  then,  as  a  broad,  eddying  bend  in  the  stream 
held  their  canoes,  by  tacit  consent  a  halt  was  made. 

Martin,  his  paddle  crossed  on  the  thwarts  in  front, 
dipped  a  cup  of  the  cool,  sweet  water  and  drank. 
Levi  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face,  and  Hersey  also 
quenched  his  thirst.  The  day  was  hot.  They  had 
paddled  ten  miles.  There  was  no  hurry,  and  as 
pipes  were  drawn  forth  and  filled,  conversation 
began.  But  just  at  this  moment  Levi's  ears,  ever 
alert,  caught  the  faint  sound  of  a  paddle  striking  a 
canoe  gunwale.  Not  as  usual,  in  an  intermittent 
fashion,  as  would  be  the  case  with  a  skilled  canoeist, 
but  a  steady,  rhythmic  thud. 

"Hist,"  he  said,  and  silence  fell  upon  the  group. 

In  the  wilderness  all  sounds  are  noticed  and  noted, 
by  night  especially,  because  then  they  may  mean  a 
bear  crawling  softly  through  the  undergrowth,  or  a 
wildcat,  yellow-eyed  and  vicious,  creeping  near.  But 
by  day  as  well  they^are  always  heeded,  and  the  crackle 


:  :  S  THE  GIKI.  FROM  TQC'S  PLACE 

of  a  trig,  or  the  sound  of  a  deer's  foot  striking  a 
stone,  or  any  slight  noise,  becomes  of  fe«Tn  interest. 

And  now,  from  far  ahead,  came  the  steady  tap, 
tap,  tap.  It  soon  •"*  "p"***1,  and  then  it  iiii'ini  I 
tihow  waiting,  l«»i»iui^  men  that  some  canoe  was 
being  "»yi  down-stream. 

Without  a  word  they  glM^l  at  one  •••••**••,  and 
then,  as  if  an  inim^inai  came  to  frq*fc  at  JJM>  same 
rime,  Martin  and  Heisey  reached  for  their  rifles. 

On  and  on  came  the  steady  thump,  thump. 

Just  ahead  the  stream  narrowed  and  curved  out 
of  sight.  A  few  foam  flecks  from  an  unseen  rifl 
above  floated  down.  Toe  white  sandy  bottom 
showed  in  the  dear  water. 

And  "*f**g  as  those  stern-faced,  watchinf.  listen— 
ing  men,  riles  in  hand,  almost  side  by  side,  waited 
there,  out  from  behind  this  bend  shot  a  canoe. 

"My  God,  it's  Pete  Bokhic!  Look  out!"  al- 
most yelled  Levi,  and  "Halt!  Surrender!"  team 
Hersey,  as  two  rifles  were  levelled  at  the  oocomer. 
Then  one  instant's  sight  off  a  red  and  scarred  face, 
a  quick  reach  for  a  rifle,  a  splash  off  water,  an  over- 
turned canoe,  and  with  a  curse  the  astonished  half- 
breed  dived  into  the  undergrowth. 

Two  "ft**  spoke  ahnnst  at  tin*  same  instant  from 
the  wiliug  canoes,  one  answered  from  oat  Ike 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  129 

thicket.  A  thrashing,  struggling  something  in  the 
filled  canoe  next  caught  all  eyes,  and  Levi,  leaping 
into  the  waist-deep  stream,  grasped  and  lifted  a 
dripping  form. 

It  was  Chip ! 

A  brief  yet  bloodless  tragedy,  all  over  in  less 
time  than  the  telling;  yet  a  lifetime  of  horror  had 
been  endured  by  that  waif,  for  as  Levi  bore  her  to 
the  bank,  cut  the  thongs  that  bound  her,  and  freed 
her  mouth  from  a  pad  of  deerskin,  she  grasped  his 
hand  and  kissed  it. 

And  then  came  another  surprise;  for  down  a 
sloping,  thick-grown  hillside,  something  was  heard 
thrashing,  and  soon  Old  Tomah,  his  clothing  in 
shreds,  his  face  bleeding,  appeared  to  view. 

Calculating  to  a  nicety  where  he  could  best  inter- 
cept and  head  off  the  escaping  half-breed,  he  had 
crossed  four  miles  of  pathless  undergrowth  in  less 
than  an  hour,  and  reached  the  stream  at  the  nearest 
point  after  it  left  the  lake. 

How  Chip,  still  sobbing  from  the  awful  agony 
of  mind,  and  dripping  water  as  well,  greeted  Old 
Tomah;  how  Hersey,  chagrined  at  the  escape  of 
the  half-breed,  gave  vent  to  muttered  curses;  how 
Martin  joined  them  in  thought;  and  how  they  all 
gathered  around  Chip  and  listened  to  her  tale  of 


130  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

horror,  are  but  minor  features  of  the  episode,  and 
not  worth  the  telling. 

When  all  was  said  and  done,  Old  Tomah,  grim 
and  silent  as  ever,  although  he  had  done  what  no 
white  man  could  do  or  would  try  to  do,  washed  his 
bloody  face  in  the  stream,  drank  his  fill  of  the  cool 
water,  and  lifting  Pete's  half-filled  canoe  as  easily  as 
if  it  were  a  shingle,  tipped  it,  turned  the  water  out, 
and  set  it  on  the  sloping  bank. 

"Me  take  you  back  and  watch  you  now,"  he  said 
to  Chip.  "You  no  get  caught  again." 

And  thus  convoyed,  poor  Chip,  willing  to  clasp 
and  caress  the  feet  or  legs  of  any  or  all  of  those  men, 
and  more  grateful  than  any  dog  ever  was  for  a  caress, 
was  escorted  back  to  the  lake. 

All  those  waiting  at  the  cabin  were  at  the  landing 
when  the  rescuers  arrived.  Angie,  her  eyes  brim- 
ming, first  embraced  and  then  kissed  the  girl.  Ray 
would  have  felt  it  a  proud  privilege  to  have  carried 
her  to  the  cabin,  and  Old  Cy's  wrinkled  face  showed 
more  joy  than  ever  gladdened  it  in  all  his  life  before. 

Somehow  this  hapless  waif  had  grown  dearer  to 
them  all  than  she  or  they  understood. 

There  was  also  feasting  and  rejoicing  that  night 
at  Martin's  wildwood  home,  and  mingled  with  it  all 
an  oft-repeated  tale. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  131 

Old  Cy  told  one  end  of  it  in  his  droll  way,  Martin 
related  the  other,  and  Chip  filled  up  the  interim. 
Levi  had  his  say,  and  Hersey  supplied  more  or  less 
—  mostly  more  —  of  this  half-breed's  history. 

Old  Tomah,  however,  said  nothing.  To  him, 
who  lived  in  the  past  of  a  bygone  race  which  looked 
upon  lumbermen  as  devastating  vandals  ever  eating 
into  its  kingdom,  and  whose  thoughts  were  upon  the 
happy  hunting-grounds  soon  to  be  entered,  this 
half-breed's  lust  and  cunning  were  as  the  fall  of  the 
leaf.  Were  it  needful  he  would,  as  he  had,  plunge 
through  bramble  and  brier  and  leap  over  rock  and 
chasm  to  rescue  his  big  pappoose,  but  now  that  she 
was  safe  again,  he  lapsed  into  his  stoical  reserve 
once  more.  Shadowy  forms  and  the  mysticism  of 
the  wilderness  were  more  to  his  taste  than  all  the 
pathos  of  human  life;  and  while  his  eyes  kindled 
at  Chip's  smile,  his  thoughts  were  following  some 
storm  or  tempest  sweeping  over  a  vast  wilderness, 
or  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  great  white  spectre. 

"Chip  is  good  girl,"  he  said  to  Angie  the  next 
morning,  "and  white  lady  love  her.  Tomah's 
heart  is  like  squaw  heart,  too;  but  he  go  away  and 
forget.  White  lady  must  not  forget,"  and  with 
that  mixture  of  tenderness  and  stoicism  he  strode 
away,  and  the  last  seen  of  him  was  when  he  entered 


132  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

the  outlet  without  once  looking  back  at  the  cabin 
where  his  "big  pappoose"  was  kept. 

More  serious,   however,   were  the  facts   Martin 
and  Hersey  now  had  to  consider,  and  a  council  of 
war,  as  it  were,  was  now  held  with  Levi,  Old  Cy,  and ' 
the  deputy  as  advisers. 

What  the  half-breed  would  now  do,  and  in  what 
way  they  could  now  capture  him  were,  of  course, 
discussed,  and  as  usual  in  such  cases,  it  was  of  no 
avail,  because  they  were  dealing  with  absolutely 
unknown  quantities.  The  facts  were  these :  Bolduc, 
a  cunning  criminal,  fearless  of  all  law,  had  set  his 
heart  upon  the  possession  of  this  girl.  Her  story, 
unquestionably  true,  that  he  had  paid  a  large  sum 
for  this  right  and  title,  must  inevitably  make 
him  feel  that  he  would  have  what  was  his  at  any 
cost.  His  first  attempt  at  securing  her  had  been 
thwarted.  He  had  been  shot  at  by  minions  of  the 
law,  —  an  act  sure  to  make  him  more  vengeful,  — 
his  canoe  had  been  taken,  and  what  with  the  loss 
of  the  girl,  money,  and  canoe  also,  one  of  his  stamp 
would  surely  be  driven  to  extreme  revenge. 

He  was  now  at  large  in  this  wilderness,  knew 
where  the  girl  and  his  enemies  were,  and  as  Hersey 
said,  "He  had  the  drop  on  them." 

"I  believe  in  standing  by  our  guns,"  that  officer 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  133 

continued,  after  all  these  conclusions  had  been  ad- 
mitted. "We  are  here  to  rid  the  woods  of  this 
scoundrel.  We  have  five  good  rifles  and  know  how 
to  use  them.  The  law  is  on  our  side,  for  he  refused 
to  surrender,  and  returned  our  shots;  and  if  I 
catch  sight  of  him,  I  shall  shoot  to  cripple, 
anyway." 

Old  Cy's  advice,  however,  was  more  pacific. 

"My  notion  is  this  feller's  a  cowardly  cuss,"  he 
said,  "a  sort  o'  human  hyena.  He'll  never  show 
himself  in  the  open,  but  come  prowlin'  'round 
nights,  stealin'  anything  he  can.  He  may  take  a 
pop  at  some  on  us  from  a-top  o'  the  ridge;  but  I 
callate  he'll  never  venture  within  gunshot  daytimes. 
His  sort  is  allus  more  skeered  o'  us'n  we  need  be 
o'  him." 

In  spite  of  Old  Cy's  conclusions,  however,  the  camp 
remained  in  a  state  of  siege  that  day  and  many 
days  following. 

Angie  and  Chip  seldom  strayed  far  from  the 
cabin.  Ray  assumed  the  water-bringing,  night 
and  morning.  Old  Cy  and  Levi  patrolled  the 
premises,  while  Martin,  Hersey,  and  his  deputy 
hunted  a  little  for  game  and  a  good  deal  for 
moccasined  footprints  or  a  sight  or  a  sign  of  this 
half-breed. 


134  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Hersey,  more  especially,  made  him  his  object  of 
pursuit.  He  had  come  here  for  that  purpose,  his 
pride  and  reputation  were  at  stake,  and  the  thousand 
dollars  Martin  had  agreed  to  pay  was  a  minor 
factor.  He  and  his  mate  passed  hours  in  the  morn- 
ings and  late  in  the  afternoon  watching  from  wide 
apart  outlooks  on  the  ridge.  They  made  long 
jaunts  up  the  brook  valley  to  where  the  smoke  sign 
had  been  seen,  they  found  where  this  half-breed 
had  built  a  fire  here,  and  later  another  lair,  a  mile 
from  the  cabins  and  in  this  ridge.  Long  detours 
they  made  in  other  directions.  Old  Tomah's  trail 
through  the  forest  was  crossed ;  but  neither  in  forest 
nor  on  lake  shore  were  any  recent  footprints  of 
the  half-breed  found.  Old  ones  were  discovered  in 
plenty.  An  almost  beaten  trail  led  from  his  lair  in 
the  ridge  to  a  crevasse  back  of  the  cabins,  but  to  one 
well  versed  in  wood  tracks,  it  was  easy  to  tell  how 
old  these  tracks  were. 

A  freshly  made  trail  in  the  forest  bears  unmistak- 
able evidence  of  its  date,  and  no  woodwise  man  ever 
confounds  a  two  or  three  days'  old  one  with  it.  One 
footprint  may  not  determine  this  occult  fact;  but 
followed  to  where  the  moss  is  spongy  or  the  earth 
moist,  a  matter  of  hours,  even,  can  be  decided. 

A  week  of  this  watchfulness,  with  no  sign  of  their 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  135 

enemy's  return,  not  even  to  within  the  circuit  patrolled 
time  and  again,  began  to  relieve  suspense  and 
awaken  curiosity.  They  had  been  so  sure,  espe- 
cially Martin,  that  he  would  come  back  for  revenge, 
that  now  it  was  hard  to  account  for  his  not  doing  so. 

"My  idee  is  he  got  so  skeer-^d  at  them  two  shots," 
Old  Cy  asserted,  "he  hain't  stopped  runnin'  yit." 
And  then  the  old  man  chuckled  at  the  ludicrous 
picture  of  this  pernicious  "varmint"  scampering 
through  a  wilderness  from  fright. 

But  Old  Cy  was  wrong.  It  was  not  fear  that 
saved  them  from  a  prompt  visitation  from  this 
half-breed,  but  lack  of  means  of  defence.  The  one 
shot  remaining  in  his  rifle  at  the  moment  of  meeting 
had  been  sent  on  its  vengeful  errand,  all  the  rest  of 
his  ammunition  was  in  his  canoe,  and  now  on  the 
bottom  of  the  stream.  Being  thus  crippled  for 
means  to  act,  the  only  course  left  to  him  was  a  return 
to  his  cabin  seventy-five  miles  away,  with  only  a 
hunting-knife  to  sustain  life  with. 

Even  to  a  skilled  hunter  and  trapper  like  him, 
this  was  no  easy  task.  It  meant  at  least  a  week's 
journey  through  almost  impassable  swamps  and 
undergrowth,  with  frogs,  raw  fish,  roots,  and  berries 
for  food. 

How  that  half-breed,  unconscious  that  the  mills 


136  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

of  God  had  ground  him  the  grist  he  deserved, 
fought  his  way  through  this  pathless  wilderness; 
how  he  ate  mice  and  frogs  to  sustain  his  worthless 
life;  how  he  cursed  McGuire  as  the  original  cause 
of  his  wretched  plight  and  Martin's  party  as  aids; 
and  how  many  times  he  swore  he  would  kill  every 
one  of  them,  needs  no  description. 

He  lived  to  reach  his  hut  on  the  Fox  Hole,  and 
from  that  moment  on,  this  wilderness  held  an  im- 
placable enemy  of  McGuire's,  sworn  to  kill  him, 
first  of  all. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  The  biggest  fool  is  the  man  that  thinks  he  knows  it  all." 

—  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

FOR  two  weeks  the  little  party  at  Birch  Camp 
first  watched  and  then  began  to  enjoy  themselves 
once  more.  September  had  come,  the  first  tint 
of  autumn  colored  every  patch  of  hardwood,  a  mel- 
low haze  softened  the  outline  of  each  green- clad 
hill  and  mountain,  the  sun  rose  red  and  sailed  an 
unclouded  course  each  day,  and  gentle  breezes 
rippled  the  lake.  The  forest,  the  sky,  the  air  and 
earth,  all  seemed  in  harmonious  mood,  and  the  one 
discordant  note,  fear  of  this  half-breed,  slowly 
vanished. 

Chip  resumed  her  hour  of  study  each  day ;  a  little 
fishing  and  hunting  was  indulged  in  by  Martin  and 
the  two  officers;  wild  ducks,  partridges,  deer,  and 
trout  supplied  their  table ;  each  evening  all  gathered 
about  the  open  fire  in  Martin's  new  cabin,  and  while 
the  older  people  chatted,  Ray  took  his  banjo  or 
whispered  with  Chip. 

These  two,  quite  unguessed  by  Angie,  had  become 


138  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

almost  lovers,  and  as  it  was  understood  Chip  was 
to  be  taken  to  Greenvale,  all  that  wonder-world,  to 
her,  had  be<»n  described  by  Ray  many  times.  He 
also  outlined  many  little  plans  for  sleigh-rides,  skat- 
ing on  the  mill-pond,  and  dances  which  he  and  she 
were  to  enjoy  together. 

His  own  future  and  livelihood  were  a  little  hazy 
to  him.  These  matters  do  not  impress  a  youth  of 
eighteen ;  but  of  one  thing  he  felt  sure, —  that  Chip 
with  her  rosy  face  and  black  eyes,  always  tender  to 
him,  was  to  be  his  future  companion  in  all  pleasures. 
It  was  love  among  the  spruce  trees,  a  summer  idyl 
made  tender  by  the  dangers  interrupting  it,  and 
hidden  from  all  eyes  except  Old  Cy's,  who  was  these 
young  friends'  favorite. 

How  many  times  he  had  taken  these  two  over  the 
ridge  during  the  first  two  weeks,  and  picked  berries 
while  they  played  at  it,  or  crossed  the  lake  in  his 
canoe  to  leave  them  on  the  shore  while  he  cast  for 
trout,  no  one  but  himself  knew,  and  he  wasn't 
telling. 

Even  now,  with  these  two  strangers  about,  Old 
Cy,  Chip,  and  Ray  somehow  seemed  to  "flock  by 
themselves."  Old  Cy  took  them  canoeing.  They 
paddled  up  streams  entering  the  lake.  He  showed 
them  where  muskrats  were  house-building,  where 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  139 

mink  had  runways,  and  otter  had  sliding  spots ;  and 
to  forestall  a  plan  of  his  own,  he  enlarged  upon  the 
fun  and  profit  of  trapping  here  when  the  time  came. 
If  these  two  young  doves  cooed  a  little  meantime, 
he  never  heard  it ;  if  they  held  hands  unduly  long, 
he  never  saw  it ;  and  if  they  exchanged  kisses  behind 
his  back  —  well,  it  was  their  own  loss  if  they  didn't. 

But  these  days  of  mingled  romance  and  tragic 
happenings,  of  shooting,  fishing,  story-telling,  and 
wildwood  life,  were  nearing  their  end,  and  one  even- 
ing Martin  announced  that  on  the  morrow  they 
would  pack  their  belongings  and,  escorted  by  the 
officers,  leave  the  wilderness. 

The  next  morning  Old  Cy  took  Ray  aside. 

"I  want  a  good  square  talk  with  ye,  my  boy,"  he 
said,  "an5  I'm  goin'  to  do  ye  a  good  turn  if  I  kin. 
Now  to  begin,  I  s'pose  ye  know  yer  aunt's  goin'  to 
take  Chip  to  Greenvale  'n'  gin  her  a  chance  at  the 
schoolin'  she  sartinly  needs.  Now  you're  callatin' 
to  go  'long  'n'  have  a  heap  o'  fun  this  winter.  I'm 
goin'  to  stay  here  'n'  keer  for  Amzi.  This  is  the  situa- 
tion 'bout  as  it  is.  Now  you  hev  got  yer  eddication, 
'n'  the  next  move  is  to  make  yer  way  in  the  world  'n' 
arn  suthin',  an'  ez  a  starter,  I  want  ye  to  stay  here 
this  winter  with  me  'n'  trap.  The  woods  round  here 
is  jist  bristlin'  with  spruce  gum  that  is  worth  a  dollar- 


140  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

fifty  a  pound,  easy.  We've  got  two  months  now, 
'fore  snow  gits  deep.  We  kin  live  on  the  top  shelf 
in  the  way  o'  fish  'n'  game.  We'll  ketch  a  b'ar 
and  pickle  his  meat  'n'  smoke  his  hams,  and  when 
spring  comes,  I'll  take  ye  out  with  mebbe  five  hun- 
dred dollars'  worth  of  furs  'n'  gum  ez  a  beginnin'. 

"Thar's  also  'nother  side  to  consider.  Chip 
wants  schoolin',  'n'  she's  got  to  study  night  'n' 
day  fer  the  next  eight  months.  If  you  go  back  with 
'em,  an'  go  gallivantin'  'round  with  her,  ez  you're 
sure  to,  it  won't  be  no  help  to  her.  I've  given  you 
two  all  the  chances  fer  weavin'  the  threads  o'  'fect- 
shun  I  could  this  summer,  an'  now  let's  you  'n'  I  turn 
to  and  make  some  money.  I've  asked  your  uncle 
'n'  aunt.  They're  willin',  'n'  now,  what  do  ye 
say?" 

Few  country  boys  with  a  love  for  trapping,  such 
as  Ray  had,  ever  had  a  more  alluring  prospect 
spread  before  them.  He  knew  Old  Cy  was  right 
in  all  his  conclusions,  and  almost  without  hesitation 
he  agreed  to  the  plan. 

It  was  far-sighted  wisdom  on  Old  Cy's  part, 
however,  in  not  giving  Ray  time  to  reflect,  else  the 
magnet  of  Chip's  eyes  on  the  one  hand,  and  eight 
months  of  separation  on  the  other,  would  have  proved 
too  strong,  and  trap-setting  and  gum-gathering, 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  141 

« 

with  five  hundred  dollars  as  reward,  would  have 
failed. 

As  it  was,  he  came  near  weakening  at  the  last 
moment  when  the  canoes  were  packed  and  Angie 
and  Chip  came  to  take  their  seats  in  them. 

He  and  his  crude,  rude,  yet  winsome  little  sweet- 
heart  had  suffered  a  brief  preliminary  parting  the 
evening  previous.  A  good  many  sweet  and  silly 
nothings  had  been  exchanged,  also  promises,  and 
now  the  boy's  heart  was  very  sore. 

Chip  was  more  stoical.  Her  life  at  Tim's  Place 
and  contact  with  Old  Tomah  had  taught  her  reserve, 
and  yet  when  she  turned  for  the  last  possible  look  at 
Old  Cy  and  Ray,  waving  good-bye  at  the  landing, 
a  mist  of  tears  hid  them. 

Old  Cy's  face  was  also  a  study.  To  him  these 
parting  clouds  were  as  the  white  ones  hiding  the  sun ; 
yet  he  felt  their  chill.  His  own  life  shadow  was 
lengthening.  He  had  now  but  a  brief  renewal  of 
youth  in  the  lives  of  these  two,  and  then  forgetful- 
ness,  as  he  knew  full  well,  and  yet  he  pitied  them. 

More  than  that,  he  had  set  his  hand  to  guiding 
the  bark  of  their  young  lives  into  the  safe  harbor  of 
a  home,  and  all  feelings  of  his  own  subserved  to  that. 

"Come,  come,  my  boy,"  he  said  to  Ray  as  the 
two  turned  away,  and  he  noted  the  lad's  sad  face. 


142  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"she's  gone  now,  an'  ye'd  best  ferget  her  fer  a  spell. 
Ye  won't,  I  know,  V  she  won't ;  but  ye'd  best  make 
believe  ye  do.  This  ain't  no  spot  fer  love-sick  spells. 
We've  got  work  to  do,  'n'  money  to  arn ;  ye've  got 
the  chance  o'  yer  life  now,  an'  me  to  help  ye  to  it,  so 
brace  up  'n'  look  cheerful. 

"Think  o'  what  we  got  to  do  to  git  ready  fer 
winter  'n'  six  foot  o'  snow.  Think  o'  the  traps  we're 
goin'  to  set,  an'  the  fun  o'  tendin'  'em.  Why,  girls 
ain't  in  it  a  minnit  with  ketchin'  mink,  marten,  otter, 
an'  now  'n'  then  a  lynx  or  bobcat.  Then  when  ye 
go  back  with  a  new  suit  'n'  money  in  yer  pocket^ 
ye'll  feel  prouder'n  a  peacock,  'n'  Chip  a-smilin'  at 
ye  sweeter'n  new  maple  syrup." 

Verily  Old  Cy  had  the  wisdom  of  age  and  the  cheer- 
fulness of  morning  sunshine. 

All  that  day  these  wilderness- marooned  friends 
worked  hard.  An  ample  stock  of  birch  wood  must 
be  cut  and  split,  a  shed  of  poles  to  cover  it  must  be 
erected  alongside  of  the  cabin,  the  hermit's  log  hut 
was  to  be  divested  of  its  fittings,  which  were  to  be 
removed  to  the  new  cabin  which  all  were  now  to 
occupy. 

Realizing  how  vital  to  their  existence  the  canoes 
were,  Old  Cy  had  also  planned  a  shelter  of  small 
logs  for  them  on  one  side  of  the  log  cabin,  that  could 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  143 

be  locked.  Here  the  canoes  not  in  use  must  be 
stored  at  once  to  guard  against  a  night  call  from  the 
malignant  half-breed.  His  canoe  had  been  taken 
along  by  Martin's  party,  to  be  left  at  Tim's  Place, 
for  even  Hersey  would  have  scorned  to  appropri- 
ate it. 

There  were  dozens  of  other  needs  to  prepare  for 
during  the  next  two  months,  all  of  which  were  impor- 
tant. An  ample  supply  of  deer  meat  must  be  se- 
cured, to  be  pickled  and  smoked.  All  the  partridges 
they  could  shoot  would  be  needed,  and  later,  when 
south-bound  ducks  halted  at  the  lake,  a  few  of  these 
would  add  to  their  larder. 

In  this  connection,  also,  another  need  occurred  to 
Old  Cy.  Trout  could  be  caught  all  winter  in  the 
lake,  but  live  bait  must  be  had,  and  so  a  slat  car  to 
be  sunk  in  some  swift-running  stream,  which  would 
hold  them,  must  be  constructed,  also  a  scoop  of 
mosquito  net  to  catch  them.  These  minnows  were 
to  be  found  now  by  the  million  in  every  brook,  and 
forethought  was  Old  Cy's  watchword. 

All  these  duties  and  details  he  discussed  that 
first  day  with  Ray,  while  they  worked,  for  a  purpose. 

But  the  first  evening  here,  with  its  open  fire,  yet 
empty  seats,  was  the  hardest  to  pass.  In  vain  Old 
Cy  enlarged  upon  the  joys  of  trap-setting  once  more, 


144  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

and  how  and  where  they  were  to  secure  gum.  In 
vain  he  described  how  deadfalls  were  built  and 
where  they  must  be  placed,  how  many  signs  of  lynx 
and  wildcat  he  had  seen  that  summer,  and  how  sure 
they  were  to  secure  some  of  these  valuable  furs. 

Ray's  heart  was  not  here.  Far  away  in  some 
night  camp,  Chip  was  thinking  of  him.  He  knew 
each  day  would  bear  her  farther  away.  No  word 
of  her  safe  arrival  could  reach  them  now.  Long 
months  must  elapse  ere  he  and  she  could  meet  again, 
and  in  prospect  they  seemed  an  eternity. 

"Come,  git  ycr  banjo,  my  boy,"  Old  Cy  ejacu- 
lated at  last,  seeing  Ray's  face  grow  gloomy.  "Tune 
'er  up,  an'  play  us  suthin'  lively.  None  o'  them 
goody-goody  weepin'  sort  o*  tunes;  but  give  us 
*  Money  Musk '  'n'  a  few  jigs.  I'm  feelin'  our  pros- 
pects are  so  cheerful,  I'd  like  to  cut  a  few  pigeon- 
wings  out  o'  compliment." 

But  Old  Cy's  hilarity  was  nearly  all  put  on.  He, 
too,  felt  the  effect  of  the  empty  seats  and  missed 
every  one  that  had  gone,  and  Ray's  jig  tunes  lacked 
their  spirit.  He  essayed  a  few,  and  then  quite  un- 
consciously his  fingers  strayed  to  "My  Old  Ken- 
tucky Home,"  and  Old  Cy's  feelings  responded. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"I  jist  nachly  hate  a  person  that  talks  as  tho'  he'd  bill 
measured  fer  a  harp."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

CHIP'S  arrival  in  Greenvale  produced  aston- 
ishment and  gossip  galore.  It  began  when  the 
stage  that  "Uncle  Joe"  Barnes  had  driven  for 
twenty  years  started  for  that  village.  There 
were  other  passengers  besides  Martin,  his  wife, 
and  Chip.  The  seats  inside  were  soon  filled,  and 
Chip,  seeing  a  coveted  chance,  climbed  nimbly 
to  a  position  beside  the  driver. 

"Gee  Whittaker,"  observed  one  bystander  to 
another,  as  Chip's  black-stockinged  legs  flashed 
into  view,  "but  that  gal's  nimbler'n  a  squirrel 
V  don't  mind  showin'  underpinnin'.  I  wished  I 
was  drivin'  that  stage.  I'll  bet  she's  a  circus." 

Uncle  Joe  soon  found  her  a  live  companion  at 
least,  for  he  had  scarce  left  the  village  ere  she 
began. 

"Your  hosses  are  fatter'n  Tim's  hosses  used  to 
be,"  she  said.  "Do  ye  feed  'em  on  hay  and 
taters?" 

HS 


146  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Uncle  Joe  gave  her  a  sideways  glance. 

"Hay  and  taters, "  he  exclaimed;  "we  don't 
feed  hosses  on  taters  down  here.  Where'd  you 
come  from?" 

"I  used  to  live  at  Tim's  Place,  up  in  the  woods, 
'n'  we  fed  our  hosses  on  taters,  'n'  they  had  backs 
sharp  'nuff  to  split  ye." 

This  time  Uncle  Joe  faced  squarely  around. 

"I  know  all  about  hosses,"  she  continued  glibly, 
"I  used  to  take  keer  on  'em  'n'  ride  one  ploughin', 
an'  I've  been  throwed  more'n  a  hundred  times 
when  we  struck  roots,  an'  ye  ought  to  'a'  heerd 
Tim  cuss.  I  used  to  cuss  just  the  same,  but  Mrs. 
Frisbie  says  I  mustn't." 

"Wai,  I  swow,"  ejaculated  Uncle  Joe,  realizing 
that  he  had  a  "case."  "What's  your  name,  'n' 
whar's  Tim's  Place?" 

"My  name's  Chip,  Chip  McGuire,  only  'tain't, 
it's  Vera;  but  they  allus  called  me  Chip,  an'  Tim's 
Place  is  ever  so  far  up  in  the  woods.  I  runned 
away  'cause  dad  sold  me,  an'  fetched  up  at  Mrs. 
Frisbie's  camp,  'n'  she's  goin'  to  eddicate  me.  My 
mother  got  killed  when  I  was  a  kid,  'n'  my  dad 
killed  'nother  one,  too ;  he's  a  bad  'un. " 

Uncle  Joe  gasped  at  this  gory  tale  of  double 
murder,  not  being  quite  sure  that  the  girl  was  sane. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  147 

"Hain't  they  ketched  yer  dad  yit?"  he  queried. 

"No,  nor  they  won't,"  Chip  rattled  on,  as  if 
such  killing  were  a  daily  occurrence  in  the  woods. 
"He's  a  slick  'un,  they  say,  an'  now  he's  got  Pete's 
money,  he'll  lay  low." 

"Worse  and  worse,  and  more  of  it,"  Uncle  Joe 
thought. 

"You  must  'a'  had  middlin'  lively  times  up  in 
the  woods,"  he  said.  "Did  yer  dad  kill  anybody 
else  'sides  yer  mother  'n'  this  man?" 

"He  didn't  kill  mother,"  Chip  returned  promptly; 
"he  used  to  lick  her,  though,  but  she  got  killed  in 
a  mill,  'n'  I  wisht  it  'ud  bin  him.  I  wouldn't  'a' 
bin  an  orfin  then.  Say,"  she  added,  as  they  entered 
a  woods-bordered  stretch  of  road,  "did  ye  ever 
see  spites  here?" 

"Spites,"  he  responded,  now  more  than  ever 
in  doubt  as  to  her  sanity,  "what's  them?" 

"Why,  they's  just  spites — things  ye  can't  see 
much  of  'ceptin'  it's  dark.  Then  they  come  crawl- 
in'  round.  They's  souls  o'  animals  mostly,  Old 
Tomah  says.  I've  seen  thousands  on  'em." 

Uncle  Joe  shifted  his  quid,  turned  and  eyed  the 
girl  once  more.  First,  a  wild  and  wofully  mixed  tale 
of  murder,  and  then  spookish  things !  Beyond  ques- 
tion she  had  wheels,  and  he  resolved  to  humor  her. 


148  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  see  them  things  here  now  'n'  then, " 
he  said,  "but  it  takes  considerable  licker  to  do  it. 
We  hain't  had  a  murder,  though,  for  quite  a  spell. 
This  is  a  sorter  peaceful  neck  o'  woods  ye're  comin' 
to." 

But  Chip  failed  to  grasp  his  quiet  humor,  and 
all  through  that  twenty-mile  autumn  day  stage 
ride  she  chattered  on  like  a  magpie. 

He  soon  concluded  she  was  sane  enough,  how- 
ever, but  the  most  voluble  talker  who  ever  shared 
his  seat. 

"I  never  seen  the  beat  o'  her,"  he  said  that  night 
at  Phinney's  store,  —  the  village  news  agency,  — 
"she  clacked  every  minit  from  the  time  we  started 
till  we  fetched  in,  an'  I  never  callated  sich  goin's 
on  ez  she  told  about  cud  ever  happen.  Thar 
was  murder  'n'  runnin'  away,  'n'  she  got  ketched 
V  carried  off  'n'  fetched  back,  'n'  a  whole  lot  o* 
resky  business.  She  believes  in  ghosts,  too,  sorter 
Injun  sperits,  'n'  she  kin  swear  jist  ez  easy  ez  I  kin. 
It  seems  the  Frisbies  hev  kinder  'dopted  her,  'n' 
I  guess  they'll  hev  their  hands  full.  She's  a  bright 
'un,  though,  but  sich  a  talker ! " 

At  Aunt  Comfort's  spacious,  old-fashioned 
home,  where  Chip  was  now  installed,  she  soon 
began  to  create  the  same  impression.  This  had 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  149 

been  Angle's  former  home,  and  her  Aunt  Comfort 
Day  had  been  her  foster-mother. 

This  family,  in  addition  to  the  new  arrival,  con- 
sisted of  Aunt  Comfort,  rotund  and  warm-hearted; 
Hannah  Pettibone,  a  well-along  spinster  of  angu- 
lar form  and  temper,  thin  to  an  almost  painful 
degree,  with  a  well-defined  mustache;  and  a 
general  helper  on  the  farm,  and  a  chore  boy  about 
Chip's  age  named  Nezer,  completed  the  list. 

Once  included  in  this  somewhat  diverse  group, 
Chip  became  an  immediate  bone  of  contention. 

Aunt  Comfort,  of  course,  opened  her  heart  to 
her  at  once;  but  Hannah  closed  hers,  almost  from 
the  first  day,  and  in  addition  she  began  to  nurse 
malice  as  well.  There  was  some  reason  for  this, 
mainly  due  to  Chip's  startling  freshness  of  speech. 

"I  thought  ye  must  be  a  man  wearin'  wimmin's 
clothes,  the  first  time  I  see  ye,"  she  said  to  Hannah 
the  next  day  after  her  arrival,  and  without  mean- 
ing offence.  "It  was  all  on  account  o'  yer  little 
whiskers,  I  guess.  I  never  see  a  woman  with  'em  * 
afore.  Why  don't  ye  shave?" 

This  was  enough;  for  if  there  was  any  one  thing 
more  mortifying  than  all  else  to  Hannah,  it  was 
her  facial  blemish,  and  a  mention  of  it  she  considered 
an  intentional  insult. 


150  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

From  this  moment  onward  she  hated  Chip. 

Nezer,  however,  took  to  her  as  a  duck  to  water, 
and  her  story,  which  he  soon  heard,  became  a  real 
dime  novel  to  him,  and  not  content  with  one  telling, 
he  insisted  on  repetition.  This  was  also  unfortu- 
nate for  —  blessed  with  a  vivid  imagination  and 
sure  to  enlarge  upon  all  facts  —  he  soon  spread 
the  story  with  many  blood-curdling  additions. 

These  stories,  with  Uncle  Joe's  corroboration, 
resulted  in  a  direful  tale  believed  by  all.  Neigh- 
bors flocked  in  to  see  this  heroine  of  many  esca- 
pades, villagers  halted  in  front  of  Aunt  Comfort's 
to  catch  a  sight  of  this  marvel,  and  so  the  wonder 
spread. 

Angie  was,  of  course,  to  blame.  More  impressed 
with  the  seriousness  of  the  task  she  had  under- 
taken than  the  need  of  caution,  she  had  failed  to 
tell  Chip  she  must  not  talk  about  herself,  and  so 
a  wofully  distorted  history  became  current  gossip. 

When  Sunday  came,  the  village  church  was 
packed,  and  Parson  Jones  marvelled  much  at  the 
unexpected  increase  of  religious  interest.  He  had 
heard  of  this  new  arrival,  but  when  the  Frisbie 
family  with  Chip,  in  suitable  clothing,  entered 
their  pew,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  this  unusual 
attendance  was  accounted  for. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  151 

And  what  a  staring-at  Chip  received ! 

On  the  church  steps  a  group  of  both  young  and 
old  men  had  awaited  her  arrival  and  gazed  at  her 
in  open-eyed  astonishment.  All  through  service 
she  was  watched,  and  not  content  with  this,  a  dozen 
or  so,  men  and  women,  formed  a  double  line  out- 
side, awaiting  the  Frisbies'  exit. 

Angie  also  failed  to  understand  the,  principal 
cause  of  this  interest.  Her  last  appearance  at 
this  church  had  been  as  a  bride.  Naturally  that 
fact  would  produce  some  staring,  and  so  the  curious 
and  almost  rude  scrutiny  the  family  received,  was 
less  noticed  by  her. 

But  Chip's  eyes  were  observant. 

"I  don't  like  goin'  to  meetin',"  she  said,  "an' 
bein'  stared  at  like  I  was  a  wildcat.  I  seen  'em 
grinnin',  too,  some  on  'em,  when  we  went  in, 
an'  one  feller  winked  to  another.  What  ailed 
'em?" 

Her  vexations,  however,  had  only  just  begun, 
for  Angie  had  seen  and  made  arrangements  with 
Miss  Phinney,  one  of  the  village  school-teachers, 
and  the  next  morning  Chip  was  sent  to  school. 
And  now  real  trouble  commenced. 

Not  knowing  more  than  how  to  read  and  spell 
short  words,  and  unable  to  write,  she,  a  fairly  well- 


152  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

developed  young  lady,  presented  a  problem  which 
was  hard  for  a  teacher  to  solve.  To  put  her  in 
the  class  where  she  belonged  was  absurd.  She 
must  sit  with  older  girls,  or  look  ridiculous.  If 
she  recited  with  the  eight-year-old  children,  the 
result  would  be  the  same,  and  so  a  species  of  pri- 
vate tuition  with  recitations  at  noon  or  after  school 
became  the  only  possible  course  and  the  one  her 
teacher  adopted. 

This  also  carried  its  vexations,  for  Chip  was  as 
tall  as  Miss  Phinney  and  a  little  larger.  Not  one 
of  that  band  of  pupils  was  over  twelve.  To  join 
in  their  games  was  no  sport  for  Chip,  while  they, 
having  heard  about  her  thrilling  experiences,  with 
a  hint  that  she  wasn't  quite  right  in  her  head,  felt 
afraid  of  her. 

"I  feel  so  sorry  for  her,"  Miss  Phinney  explained 
to  Angie,  a  week  later,  "and  yet,  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  She  is  so  big  the  children  won't  play 
with  her,  or  she  with  them.  I  am  the  only  one 
with  whom  she  will  talk,  and  she  seems  so  humble 
and  so  grateful  for  every  word.  I  can't  be  as  stern 
with  her  or  govern  her  as  I  should,  on  account  of 
her  temper  and  size. 

"  Only  yesterday  I  heard  screaming  at  recess, 
and  going  out,  I  found  that  Chip  had  one  of  the 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  153 

girls  by  the  hair  and  was  cuffing  her.  It  transpired 
that  this  girl  had  called  her  an  Indian  and  asked 
if  she  had  ever  scalped  anybody.  I  can't  punish 
such  a  pupil,  and  I  can't  help  loving  her,  so  you 
see  she  is  a  sore  trial." 

She  also  became  a  trial  to  Angie  in  countless 
ways. 

Of  a  deep  religious  conviction,  and  believing 
this  waif  needed  to  be  brought  into  the  fold,  Angie 
set  about  that  task  at  once.  But  Chip  was  imper- 
vious to  such  instruction.  By  no  argument  or  per- 
suasion could  Angie  force  her  protegee  to  renounce 
her  belief  in  the  heathenism  of  Old  Tomah,  or 
convince  her  that  God  and  the  angels  were  any 
different  from  his  collection  of  spirit  forms,  or 
that  heaven  was  anything  more  than  another 
name  for  his  happy  hunting-grounds.  Old  Tomah 
had  been  her  wise  and  only  friend,  so  far.  She  had 
seen  all  the  ghostly  forms  he  had  described,  had 
felt  all  the  occult  influences  which  he  said  existed, 
and  neither  coaxing  nor  derision  served  to  make  her 
disown  them. 

Of  course,  Angie  took  her  to  church  regularly. 
She  sat  through  services  and  bowed  as  all  did. 
Sabbath-school  instruction  would  have  been  forced 
upon  her  but  for  the  reason  that  made  her  a  class 


154  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

of  one  under  Miss  Phinney,  and  Parson  Jones's 
attention  was  finally  enlisted. 

He  spent  an  hour  in  pointing  out  her  heathenish 
sins,  assured  her  that  Old  Tomah  was  a  wicked 
reprobate  and  an  ignorant  savage  combined,  that 
all  influences  so  far  surrounding  her  had  been 
the  worst  possible,  —  a  self-evident  fact,  —  and 
unless  she  confessed  a  change  of  heart,  and  soon, 
too,  all  her  friends  here  would  desert  her  and  the 
devil  would  overtake  her  by  and  by,  and  then 
closed  this  well-intended  effort  with  a  prayer. 

Chip  sat  through  it  all,  mute  and  cowering. 
The  parson's  white  hair,  sharp  eyes,  and  solemn 
voice  awed  her,  and  when  he  had  departed,  she 
began  to  cry. 

"I  don't  see  the  need  o'  makin'  me  say  I  don't 
believe  suthin'  when  I  do,"  she  said.  "I've  seen 
spites  'n'  I  know  I've  seen  'em,  an'  nobody  can 
make  me  believe  Old  Tomah  a  bad  man,  if  he  is 
an  Injun.  He  runned  after  me  when  I  got  ketched, 
'n'  near  got  his  eyes  scratched  out  "  —  a  logic  it 
was  useless  to  contend  with. 

"You're  jest  a  little  spunky  devil,"  Hannah 
said  to  her  later  on  with  a  vicious  accent,  "an5  if 
I  was  Mrs.  Frisbie  I'd  larrup  ye  till  ye  confessed 
penitence,  I  would.  The  idee  o'  you  settin*  thar 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  155 

a-mullin'  all  the  time   the  minister  was   tryin*  to 
save  ye!    It's  scand'lus!" 

And  that  night  Chip  was  back  in  the  wilderness 
with  Old  Cy  and  Ray  in  thought,  and  so  home- 
sick for  them  that  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  While  yer  argufyin'  with  a  fool,  jes'  figger  that's  two  on 
''em."  — OLD  CY  WALKER. 

THE  streams  and  swamps  contiguous  to  this  lake 
were  well  adapted  for  the  habitat  of  mink,  muskrat, 
otter,  fisher,  and  those  large  fur-bearing  animals, 
the  lynx  and  lucivee,  and  here  a  brief  description  of 
where  such  animals  exist,  and  how  they  are  caught, 
may  be  of  interest. 

The  habits  of  the  muskrat,  the  least  cunning  of 
these,  are  so  well  known  that  they  merit  only  a  few 
words.  They  are  amphibious  animals,  their  food 
is  succulent  roots,  bulbs,  and  bark,  and  they  frequent 
small,  marshy  ponds,  sluggish  streams,  and  swamps. 
In  summer  they  conceal  themselves  by  burrowing 
into  soft  banks ;  in  winter  they  erect  houses  of  sedge- 
grass,  roots,  and  mud,  and  are  caught  in  small  steel 
traps  set  in  shallow  water  at  the  entrance  of  their 
paths  out  of  lake  or  stream. 

Mink,  marten,  otter,  and  fisher  are  much  alike  in 
shape  and  habit.  All  belong  to  the  same  family,  but 
vary  in  size,  also  slightly  in  the  matter  of  food. 

156 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  157 

Mink  and  marten  live  on  fish,  frogs,  birds,  mice,  etc. ; 
otter  on  fish  and  roots;  and  fishers,  as  their  name 
implies,  subsist  largely  on  fish.  All  these  are  more 
valuable  fur-bearing  animals  than  muskrats.  Their 
abiding  places  are  swamps  and  shallow  streams,  in 
the  banks  of  which  they  burrow,  and  they  are  usu- 
ally caught  in  steel  traps  baited  with  fish  or  meat. 

The  lucivee,  or  lynx,  and  bobcat,  more  ferocious 
and  cunning  than  their  smaller  cousins,  roam  the 
woods  and  swamps,  live  on  smaller  animals,  hide  in 
caves,  crevices,  and  hollow  trees,  and  they  as  well  as 
otter  occasionally  are  caught  in  deadfalls. 

Old  Cy,  familiar  as  he  was  with  the  homes,  habits, 
and  the  manner  of  catching  these  cunning  animals, 
soon  began  his  trap-setting  campaign.  A  few  dozen 
steel  traps  were  first  set  along  the  stream  and  lagoons 
entering  the  lake,  and  then  he  and  Ray  pushed  up 
Beaver  Brook,  and  leaving  their  canoe,  followed  its 
narrow  valley  in  search  of  suitable  spots  to  set  the 
more  elaborated  deadfalls,  which  also  merit  descrip- 
tion. 

A  deadfall  is  made  by  placing  one  end  of  a  suitably 
sized  log  —  one  perhaps  fifteen  feet  long  and  a  foot 
in  diameter  —  on  a  figure  four  trap,  so  adjusted  that 
its  spindle  end,  to  which  the  bait  is  secured,  shall 
be  poised  beneath  the  upraised  end  of  the  log. 


158  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Alongside  of  this  log  a  double  row  of  stakes  is 
driven  to  form  a  pen  with  entrance  leading  to  the 
bait.  When  this  deadly  contrivance  is  properly 
adjusted,  the  log  and  its  pen  of  stakes  is  concealed 
with  green  boughs  piled  lightly  over  it,  and  all  the 
hungry  lynx  sees  is  a  narrow  opening  under  green 
boughs,  and  in  it  a  tempting  morsel  awaiting  him. 
As  those  creatures,  as  well  as  now  and  then  an  otter, 
are  sure  to  roam  up  and  down  all  small  streams, 
a  spot  where  one  emerges  from  a  narrow  defile, 
or  joins  a  larger  one,  is  usually  selected  for  a 
deadfall. 

It  is  also  quite  a  task  to  clear  a  suitable  space,  fell 
a  right-sized  tree,  and  construct  one  of  these  penlike 
traps;  and  although  Old  Cy  and  Ray  started  early, 
it  was  mid-afternoon  that  day  ere  they  had  the  third 
one  ready  and  awaiting  its  possible  victim. 

As  gum-gathering  was  also  a  part  of  their  season's 
plan,  they  now  left  the  swamp  valley,  and,  ascending 
the  spruce-clad  upland,  began  this  work,  which  is 
also  worthy  of  description. 

The  chewing  gum  of  commerce,  so  delightful  to 
schoolgirls  and  small  boys,  is  the  refined,  diluted, 
and  sweetened  product  of  gum  nuts,  or  the  small 
excrescences  of  spruce  sap  that  exudes  and  hardens 
around  knot-holes  and  cracks  in  the  bark  of  those 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  159 

trees.  These  form  into  hardened  nuts  or  knobs  of 
gum,  from  the  size  of  a  hazelnut  to  that  of  butter- 
nut, and  are  worth  from  a  dollar  to  a  dollar  and  fifty 
cents  a  pound.  A  long  pole  with  a  sharpened  knife 
or  chisel  fastened  to  its  tip  is  used  by  gum  seekers. 
It  can  be  gathered  from  the  time  frost  first  hardens 
it  until  spring,  and  to  gather  three  to  five  pounds  is 
considered  a  good  day's  work. 

Ray's  first  attempt  at  this  labor  seemed  like  nut- 
gathering  at  home,  only  more  romantic,  and  when 
they  were  well  into  the  vast  spruce  growth  bordering 
one  side  of  the  Beaver  Brook  valley,  he  became  so 
interested  in  hunting  for  the  brown  knobs,  loosen- 
ing them,  and  picking  them  up  that  he  would 
have  soon  lost  all  points  of  the  compass,  except  for 
Old  Cy. 

There  is  also  a  spice  of  danger  seasoning  this  pur- 
suit. A  wildcat  might  at  any  moment  be  seen 
watching  from  the  crotch  of  a  tree,  or  a  bear  might 
suddenly  emerge  from  the  thicket.  It  was  hard 
work  also,  for  while  some  parts  of  a  spruce  forest 
may  be  free  from  undergrowth,  not  all  portions  are, 
and  this  tangle  is  one  not  easy  to  move  about  in. 

There  was  also  another  element  that  entered  into 
the  trapping  and  gum-gathering  life,  —  the  pos- 
sible return  of  the  half-breed. 


l6o  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"He  hain't  nothin'  agin  us,"  Old  Cy  asserted, 
when  the  question  came  up.  "We  didn't  chase 
him  the  day  he  stole  Chip,  'n'  yet  I  s'pose  he'll  show 
up  some  day,  'n'  mebbe  do  us  harm." 

It  was  this  fear  that  had  led  Old  Cy  to  leave  one 
of  their  canoes  in  a  log  locker,  securely  barred,  and 
also  to  caution  the  hermit  to  remain  on  guard  at  the 
cabin  while  he  and  Ray  were  away. 

A  canoe  is  the  one  most  vital  need  of  a  wildwood 
life,  for  the  reason  that  the  streams  are  the  only 
avenues  of  escape  and  afford  the  only  opportunities 
for  travel. 

The  wilderness,  of  course,  can  be  traversed,  but 
not  easily.  Swamps  will  be  met  and  must  be  avoided, 
for  a  wilderness  swamp  is  practically  impassable. 
Streams  can  be  forded,  but  lakes  must  be  encom- 
passed, and  even  an  upland  forest  is  but  a  tangled 
jungle  of  fallen  trees  and  undergrowth. 

Old  Cy  knew,  or  at  least  he  felt  almost  sure,  that 
the  half-breed  would  return  in  good  time.  He  had 
also  reasoned  out  his  failure  to  do  so  at  once,  and 
knew  that  left  canoeless,  as  he  had  been  that  tragic 
day,  his  only  course  must  be  the  one  he  actually 
followed.  A  month  had  elapsed  since  then,  with  no 
sign  of  this  "varmint's"  return,  and  now  Old  Cy 
was  on  the  watch  for  it. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  101 

Each  morning,  when  he  traversed  the  lake  shore 
from  ice-house  to  landing,  he  looked  for  tell-tale  foot- 
prints. He  watched  for  them  wherever  he  went, 
and  the  distant  report  of  a  rifle  would  have  been 
accepted  as  a  sure  harbinger  of  this  enemy. 

It  became  their  custom  now  each  day,  first  to  visit 
all  small  traps  in  the  near-by  streams,  then  pushing 
their  canoe  as  far  as  possible  up  the  Beaver  Brook, 
to  leave  it,  continue  up  the  valley,  and  after  inspect- 
ing their  deadfalls,  turn  to  the  right  out  of  this  swale, 
and  begin  the  gathering  of  gum. 

And  now,  one  day,  in  carrying  out  this  programme, 
a  discovery  was  made. 

They  had  first  visited  the  small  traps  near  the  lake, 
securing  a  couple  of  mink  and  three  muskrats,  which 
were  left  in  the  canoe.  An  otter  was  found  in  one 
of  the  deadfalls,  and  taking  this  with  them,  they  en- 
tered the  spruce  timber  and  hung  it  on  a  conspicuous 
limb.  Then  the  search  for  gum  began. 

As  usual,  they  worked  hard.  The  days  were 
short,  the  best  of  sunlight  was  needful  to  see  the 
brown  nuts  in  the  sombre  forest,  and  so  they  paid 
no  heed  to  aught  except  what  was  overhead.  When 
time  to  return  arrived,  Old  Cy  picked  up  his  rifle 
and  led  the  way  back  to  where  the  otter  had  been 
left,  but  it  had  vanished.  Glancing  about  to  make 


l62  THE   GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

sure  that  he  was  right,  he  advanced  to  the  tree,  looked 
down,  and  saw  two  footprints.  Stooping  over  to 
examine  them  better  in  the  uncertain  light,  he  noted 
also  that  they  were  not  his  own,  but  larger,  and  made 
by  some  one  wearing  boots. 

"Tain't  the  half-breed,"  he  muttered,  with  an 
accent  of  relief,  and  looking  about,  he  saw  a  well- 
defined  trail  leading  down  the  slope  and  thence 
onward  toward  the  swamp. 

Some  one  had  crossed  this  broad,  oval,  spruce- 
covered  upland  while  they  were  not  two  hundred 
rods  away  from  this  tree,  had  stolen  their  otter,  and 
gone  on  into  the  swamp. 

Any  freshly  made  human  footprint  found  in  a 
vast  wilderness  awakens  curiosity;  these  seemed 
ominous. 

"He  must  'a'  seen  us  'fore  he  did  the  otter,"  Old 
Cy  ejaculated,  "an*  it's  curis  he  didn't  make  himself 
known.  Neighbors  ain't  over  plenty,  hereabout." 

But  the  sun  was  nearing  the  tree-tops,  the  canoe 
was  a  mile  away,  and  after  one  more  look  around, 
Old  Cy  started  for  it.  There  was  no  use  in  following 
this  trail  now,  for  it  led  into  the  tangled  swamp,  and 
so,  skirting  this  until  a  point  opposite  the  canoe  was 
reached,  Old  Cy  and  Ray  then  plunged  into  it. 

Twilight  had  begun  to  shadow  this  vale  ere  the 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  163 

canoe  was  reached.  And  here  was  another  surprise, 
for  the  canoe  was  found  turned  half  over,  and  on 
its  broad  oval  bottom  was  a  curious  outline  of  black 
mud.  The  light  was  not  good  here.  A  fir-grown 
ledge  shadowed  the  spot ;  but  as  Old  Cy  stooped  to 
examine  this  mud- made  emblem,  it  gradually  took 
shape,  and  he  saw  —  a  skull  and  cross  bones ! 

"Wai,  by  the  Great  Horn  Spoon!"  he  exclaimed, 
"I  never  s 'posed  a  pirate  'ud  fetch  in  here!  An' 
he's  swiped  our  muskrats  and  mink,"  he  added,  as 
he  looked  under  the  canoe,  "durn  him!" 

Then  the  bold  bravado  of  it  all  occurred  to  Old 
Cy.  The  theft  was  doubtless  made  by  whosoever 
had  taken  their  otter,  and  not  content  with  robbing 
them,  he  had  added  insult. 

"I  s'pose  we'd  orter  be  grateful  he  left  the  paddles 
'n'  didn't  smash  the  canoe,"  Old  Cy  continued, 
turning  it  over.  "I  wonder  who't  can  be?" 

One  hasty  look  around  revealed  the  same  boot- 
marks  in  the  soft  earth  near  the  stream,  and  then  he 
and  Ray  launched  their  craft  and  started  for  home. 

"I'm  goin'  to  foller  them  tracks  to-morrer,"  Old 
Cy  said,  when  they  were  entering  the  lake  and  a  light 
in  the  cabin  just  across  reassured  him.  "It  may  be 
a  little  resky,  but  I'm  goin'  to  find  out  what  sorter  a 
neighbor  we've  got." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"  When  a  man  begins  talkin1  'bout  himself,  it  seems  as  tho1 
he'd  never  run  down."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

ALL  fellow-sojourners  in  the  wilderness  awaken 
keen  interest,  and  the  unbroken  silence  and  solitude 
of  a  boundless  forest  make  a  fellow  human  being 
one  we  are  glad  to  accost. 

A  party  of  lumbermen  wielding  axes  causes  one 
to  turn  aside  and  call  on  them.  A  sportsman's  camp 
seen  on  a  lake  shore  or  near  a  stream's  bank  always 
invites  a  landing  to  interview  whoever  may  be  there. 

All  this  interest  was  now  felt  by  Old  Cy  and  Ray, 
and  with  it  an  added  sense  of  danger.  No  friendly 
hunter  or  trapper  would  thus  ignore  them  in  the 
woods.  This  piratically  minded  thief  must  have 
seen  them,  for  the  spruce- clad  oval,  perhaps  half  a 
mile  in  width,  was  comparatively  free  from  under- 
growth where  they  had  been  working.  He  had 
crossed  it  within  fairly  open  sight  of  them,  had  found 
the  otter  hanging  from  a  limb,  had  taken  it,  and 
thence  on  to  rob  their  canoe,  daub  it  with  that  hid- 
eous emblem,  world- wide  in  meaning,  and  then  had 

164 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  165 

gone  on  his  way.  Almost  could  Old  Cy  see  him 
watching  them  from  behind  trees,  skulking  along 
when  their  backs  were  turned,  a  low,  contemptible 
thief. 

Old  Cy  knew  that  bordering  this  oval  ridge  on  its 
farther  side  was  a  swamp,  that  a  stream  flowed 
through  it,  and  surmising  that  this  fellow  might  have 
come  up  or  down  this  stream,  he  left  their  cabin  pre- 
pared for  a  two  or  three  days'  sojourn  away  from  it, 
which  meant  that  food,  blankets,  and  simple  cooking 
utensils  must  be  taken  along. 

No  halt  was  made  to  visit  traps.  Old  Cy  was 
trailing  bigger  game  now;  and  when  the  point 
where  they  had  left  the  canoe  the  day  previous  was 
reached,  the  canoe  was  pulled  out  on  the  stream's 
bank,  the  rifles  only  taken,  and  the  trailing  began. 
He  followed  up  the  brook  valley  a  little  way,  to  find 
that  only  one  track  came  down;  he  then  circled 
about  the  canoe,  until,  like  a  hound,  he  found 
where  the  clearly  defined  trail  left  the  swamp  again. 

Here  in  the  soft  carpet  under  the  spruce  trees  one 
could  follow  this  trail  on  the  run,  and  here  also  Old 
Cy  found  where  this  enemy  had  halted  beside  trees 
evidently  while  watching  them,  as  the  tracks  indi- 
cated. When  the  bordering  swamp  was  reached, 
the  trail  turned  in  a  westerly  direction,  skirting  thus 


l66  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

for  half  a  mile,  and  here,  also,  evidences  of  skulking 
along  were  visible. 

Another  trail  was  now  come  upon,  but  leading 
directly  over  the  ridge,  and  just  beyond  this  juncture 
both  the  trails  now  joined,  entered  the  swamp,  and 
ended  at  a  lagoon  opening  out  from  the  stream. 
Here,  also,  evidences  of  a  canoe  having  been  hauled 
up  into  the  bog  were  visible. 

"That  sneakin'  pirate  come  up  this  stream,"  Old 
Cy  observed  to  Ray,  as  the  two  stood  looking  at  these 
unmistakable  signs.  "He  left  his  canoe  here  'n' 
crossed  the  ridge  above  us  'n'  down  to  whar  we  left 
the  otter  'n'  on  to  our  canoe.  Then  he  come  back 
the  way  we  follered,  'n'  my  idee  is  he  had  his  eye 
on  us  most  o'  the  time.  I  callate  he  has  been 
laughin'  ever  since  at  what  we'd  say  when  we  found 
that  mud  daub  on  our  canoe,  durn  him !" 

But  their  canoe  was  now  a  half-mile  away,  and 
for  a  little  time  Old  Cy  looked  at  the  black,  current- 
less  stream  and  considered.  Then  he  glanced  up 
at  the  sun. 

"I've  a  notion  we'd  best  fetch  our  canoe  over 
here,"  he  said  at  last,  "an'  follow  this  thief  a  spell 
farther.  We  may  come  on  to  suthin'." 

"Won't  he  shoot  at  us?"  returned  Ray,  more  im- 
pressed by  this  possible  danger  than  was  Old  Cy. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  167 

"Wai,  mebbe  and  mebbe  not,"  answered  the 
old  man.  "Shootin's  a  game  two  kin  play  at, 
an'  we've  jist  ez  good  a  right  to  foller  the  stream  ez 
he  has." 

But  when  their  canoe  had  been  carried  over  and 
launched  in  this  lagoon,  Ray's  spirits  rose.  It  was 
an  expedition  into  new  waters,  somewhat  venture- 
some, and  for  that  reason  it  appealed  to  him. 

Then  they  had  two  rifles,  Old  Cy  had  taught  him 
to  shoot,  he  had  already  killed  one  deer  and  some 
smaller  game,  and  the  go-west-and-kill-Indian  im- 
pulse latent  in  all  boys  was  a  part  of  Ray's  nature. 
Besides,  he  had  an  unbounded  faith  in  Old  Cy's 
skill  with  the  rifle. 

And  now  began  a  canoe  journey  into  and  through 
a  vast  swamp,  the  upland  border  of  which  could 
scarce  be  seen.  The  stream  they  followed  was  black, 
and  so  absolutely  motionless  that  it  was  a  guess 
which  way  they  were  going.  The  mingled  hack- 
matack and  alder  growth  along  each  bank  was  so 
dense  that  no  view  ahead  could  be  seen,  and  they 
must  merely  follow  the  winding  pathway  of  dark 
waters  and  hope  to  come  out  somewhere. 

For  two  hours  they  paddled  along  this  serpentine 
highway,  and  then  the  vastness  of  this  morass  began 
to  impress  them.  No  sign  of  current  had  been  met. 


l68  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

All  view  of  the  spruce-grown  upland  they  had  left 
was  obscured  by  distance.  Now  and  then  a  dead 
tree,  bleached  and  spectral,  marked  a  turn  in  the 
stream,  and  hundreds  of  them,  rising  all  about  above 
the  low  green  tangle,  added  a  ghostly  haze.  It  was 
as  if  they  were  venturing  into  a  new  world  —  a 
boundless  morass,  covered  by  an  impenetrable  tan- 
gle, and  made  grewsome  by  the  bleaching  trunks 
of  dead  trees. 

"I'm  goin'  to  find  which  way  we're  goin',"  Old 
Cy  exclaimed  at  last,  as  they  neared  a  small  dead 
cedar  that  pointed  out  over  the  stream,  and  seizing 
a  projecting  limb  of  this,  he  broke  off  bits  of  dry 
twigs,  and  tossed  them  into  the  stream.  For  a 
long  moment  not  one  stirred,  and  then  at  last  a 
movement  backward  could  be  discovered. 

"We're  goin'  up-stream,  anyhow,"  he  added, 
glancing  at  the  sun,  now  marking  mid-afternoon; 
"but  we've  got  to  git  out  o'  this  'fore  dark,  or  we'll 
be  in  a  bad  fix,  an'  hev  to  sleep  in  the  canoe." 

No  halt  for  dinner  had  yet  been  made.  They 
were  both'  faint  from  need  of  food,  and  so  Old  Cy 
reached  for  a  small  wooden  pail  containing  their 
sole  supply  of  provisions.  Neither  was  it  a  luxurious 
repast  which  was  now  eaten.  A  couple  of  hard- 
tacks munched  by  each  and  moistened  with  a  cup 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  169 

of  this  swamp  water  and  a  bit  of  dried  deer  meat 
was  all,  and  then  Old  Cy  lit  his  pipe,  dipped  his 
paddle  handle  in  the  stream,  and  once  more  they 
pushed  on.  Soon  a  low  mound  of  hard  soil  rose  out 
of  the  tangle  just  ahead,  an  oasis  in  this  unvarying 
mud  swamp,  and  gaping  at  them  from  amid  its  cover 
of  scrub  birch  and  cedar  stood  a  deadfall.  It  faced 
them  as  they  neared  this  small  island,  and  with  log 
upraised  between  a  pen  of  stakes  it  much  resembled 
the  open  mouth  of  a  huge  alligator. 

"Hain't  been  built  long,"  Old  Cy  exclaimed,  after 
they  had  landed  to  examine  it.  "I've  a  notion  it's 
the  doin's  of  our  pirate  friend,  an'  he's  trappin* 
round  about  this  swamp.  He's  had  good  luck 
lately,  anyhow,  for  he's  got  six  o'  our  pelts  to  add  to 
his  string." 

From  here  onward  signs  of  human  presence  in 
this  swamp  became  more  visible.  Now  and  then 
an  opening  cut  through  the  limbs  of  a  lopped-over 
spruce  was  met ;  a  spot  where  drift  had  been  pushed 
aside  to  clear  the  stream  was  found  at  one  place; 
signs  of  a  canoe  having  been  nosed  into  the  bog 
grass  were  seen;  and  here  were  also  the  same  foot- 
prints they  had  followed. 

Another  bit  of  hard  bottom  was  reached,  and  here 
again  was  another  deadfall.  Tracks  evidently  made 


170  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

within  a  few  days  were  about  here,  and  tied  to 
its  figure-four  spindle  was  a  freshly  caught  brook 
sucker. 

"The  scent's  gettin'  warm,"  Old  Cy  muttered,  as 
he  examined  these  signs  of  a  trapper's  presence,  and 
then,  mindful  of  the  sun,  he  paddled  on  again. 

And  now  an  upland  growth  of  tall  spruce  was  seen 
ahead,  the  banks  became  in  evidence,  and  a  slight 
current  was  met.  One  more  long  bend  in  the  stream 
was  followed,  then  came  curving  banks  and  large- 
bodied  spruce.  They  were  out  of  the  swamp. 

Soon  a  more  distinctive  current  opposed  them,  a 
low  murmur  of  running  water  came  from  ahead, 
and  then  a  pass  between  two  abutting  ledges  was 
entered.  Here  the  stream  eddied  over  sunken 
rocks,  and  pushing  on,  the  forest  seemed  suddenly 
to  vanish  as  they  emerged  from  the  gloom  of  this 
short  canon,  and  the  next  moment  they  caught 
sight  of  a  long,  narrow  lakelet. 

The  sun,  now  almost  to  the  tree- tops,  cast  a  red- 
dish glow  upon  its  placid  surface,  and  so  welcome  a 
change  was  it  from  the  ghostly,  forbidding  swamp 
just  left,  that  Old  Cy  halted  their  canoe  at  once  to 
look  out  upon  it.  It  was  seemingly  a  mile  long,  but 
quite  a  narrow  lake.  A  bold,  rocky  shore  rising  in 
ledges  faced  them  just  across,  and  extended  along 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  lyi 

that  side,  back  of  these  a  low,  green-clad  mountain, 
to  the  right,  and  at  the  end  of  this  lanelike  lake 
a  bolder,  bare-topped  cliff  was  outlined  clear  and 
distinct. 

This  strip  of  water,  for  it  was  not  much  more, 
seemingly  filled  an  oblong  gorge  in  these  mountains, 
only  one  break  in  them,  to  the  left  of  this  bare  peak ; 
and  as  Old  Cy  urged  their  canoe  out  of  the  alder- 
choked  stream,  now  currentless  once  more,  a  margin 
line  of  rushes  and  reeds  was  seen  to  form  that  shore. 
Back  of  these,  also,  rose  the  low  ledge  they  had 
passed. 

" Looks  like  a  good  hidin'  spot  fer  a  pirate,"  he 
exclaimed,  glancing  up  and  down  the  smiling  lake- 
let. "Thar  ain't  many  folks  likely  to  tackle  that 
swamp  —  it  took  us  'most  all  day  to  cross  it.  I'll 
bet  no  lumberman  ever  tried  it  twice,  'n'  if  I  wanted 
to  git  absolutely  'way  from  bein'  molested,  I'd  locate 
here.  I  dunno  whether  we'd  best  cross  'n'  make 
camp  'mong  them  ledges,  or  go  back  into  the  woods. 
Guess  we'd  best  go  back  'n'  take  a  sneak  round  be- 
hind the  ledge.  I  noticed  a  loggin  1  leadin'  up  that 
way  'fore  we  left  the  swamp.'^ 

But  now  something  was  discovered  that  proved 
Old  Cy's  wisdom,  for  as  they,  charmed  somewhat  by 

1  Lagoon. 


172  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

the  spot,  yet  feeling  it  forbidding,  still  glanced  up  and 
down  the  bold  shore  just  across,  suddenly  a  thin 
column  of  smoke  rose  from  away  to  the  right,  amid 
the  bare  ledges. 

First  a  faint  haze,  rising  in  the  still  air,  then  a 
burst  of  white,  until  the  fleecy  pillar  was  plainly  out- 
lined as  it  ascended  and  drifted  backward  into  the 
green  forest. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"Licker  allus  lets  the  cat  out."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

WHEN  the  half-breed,  Pete  Bolduc,  reached  Tim's 
Place,  he  was  more  dead  than  alive.  A  week  of 
crawling  through  swamps,  wading  or  swimming 
streams,  sleeping  under  fallen  trees,  while  sustaining 
life  on  frogs,  raw  fish,  and  one  muskrat,  had  elimi- 
nated about  all  desire  to  obtain  Chip,  and  left  a  mur- 
derous hate  instead.  And  McGuire  was  its  object. 

Pete  reasoned  that  he  had  bought  the  girl  and  paid 
for  her.  Her  father,  never  intending  to  keep  faith, 
had  connived  at  her  escape,  and  knowing  of  these 
campers,  had  hired  her  for  a  serving  maid,  and  they 
would  inevitably  take  her  out  when  they  left.  It 
was  all  a  part  of  McGuire's  plot  and  plan,  and  no 
doubt  this  stranger  had  also  paid  him  for  her  posses- 
sion. 

Two  other  facts  also  seemed  proof  positive  that 
these  conclusions  were  correct.  First,  McGuire 
had  never  been  seen  at  Tim's  Place  since  the  girl's 
escape;  second,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
her  to  reach  these  campers  without  aid.  But  she 


174  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

was  lost  to  him  for  all  time,  as  Pete  now  realized. 
The  stern  faces  and  ready  rifles  of  her  protectors 
had  convinced  him  of  that,  and  all  that  remained 
was  to  find  McGuire,  force  him  to  give  back  the 
money,  then  obtain  revenge. 

Neither  was  this  an  easy  task,  for  McGuire  was  a 
dangerous  man,  as  Pete  well  knew,  and  the  more  he 
considered  the  matter,  sojourning  at  Tim's  Place 
and  nursing  his  hate  meanwhile,  the  more  he  realized 
that  the  killing  of  McGuire  must  precede  the  obtain- 
ing of  his  money.  And  now,  where  to  find  McGuire 
became  a  question. 

Pete  knew  that  at  this  season  he  usually  devoted  a 
month  or  more  to  a  trapping  trip,  that  in  starting 
out  he  always  ascended  the  Fox  Hole,  and  that  his 
location  for  this  purpose  was  the  head  waters  of 
another  stream,  reached  by  a  carry  from  the  Fox 
Hole. 

For  a  week  Pete  remained  at  Tim's  Place,  and 
then,  obtaining  a  canoe,  returned  to  his  hut  on  this 
stream. 

And  now,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  domicile, 
certain  other  facts  and  conclusions  bearing  upon  the 
present  whereabouts  of  McGuire  occurred  to  him. 

For  many  years  they  had  been  friends  in  a  way, 
or  at  least  as  much  so  as  two  such  scamps  ever  are. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE 

Together  they  had  made  many  canoe  trips  to  the 
Provinces  to  obtain  liquor.  In  these  expeditions, 
McGuire  had  furnished  the  means;  but  outlawed 
as  he  was,  had  remained  in  hiding  while  Pete  trans- 
acted the  business  and  later  shared  the  profits. 
Pete's  hut  had  also  been  used  as  headquarters,  and 
near  by  it  the  smuggled  liquor  had  been  secreted. 

On  rare  occasions,  also,  McGuire  had  broken 
away  from  his  usual  abstemiousness,  and  here,  with 
Pete  for  companion,  had  indulged  in  an  orgie.  At 
these  times  he  invariably  boasted  how  cunning  he 
had  been  in  eluding  all  hated  officers  of  the  law, 
how  much  money  he  was  worth,  and  how  securely 
he  had  it  hidden.  The  one  most  pertinent  fact, 
the  location  of  this  hiding  spot,  he  never  betrayed. 
But  now  Pete  —  almost  as  shrewd  as  he  —  reasoned 
that  it  would  most  likely  be  somewhere  in  this  region 
annually  visited  by  him. 

To  find  this  was  a  hard  problem;  to  find  Mc- 
Guire's  hiding  spot  for  his  money  more  so.  It  meant 
trailing  a  human  being  of  greater  cunning  than  any 
animal  that  roamed  this  wilderness;  and  yet  with 
the  double  incentive  of  robbing  and  revenge  now 
decided  upon  by  this  half-breed,  he  set  about  solv- 
ing it. 

A  day's  journey  up  the  Fox  Hole  brought  him  ta 


176  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

the  carry  over  into  another  stream,  and  here  a  prob- 
ably month-old  trail,  crossing  and  recrossing  it,  was 
found.  Whoever  left  the  tell-tale  footprints  wore 
boots,  and  as  McGuire  was  the  only  hunter  or 
trapper  in  this  region  known  to  wear  them,  this 
seemed  evidence  that  it  was  he.  Then  as  two  trails 
led  over,  with  only  one  returning,  that  proved  he 
had  made  two  trips  across  to  carry  his  canoe  and 
belongings  and  had  not  returned.  This  was  plain 
enough,  but  when  once  over,  the  question  of  whether 
he  went  up  or  down  stream  was  another  matter. 
It  was  an  even  chance,  however,  and  Pete  decided 
to  go  up,  and  keep  sharp  watch  for  any  signs  which 
would  indicate  that  he  was  on  the  right  track.  To 
trail  any  animal  in  this  wilderness  was  child's  play 
to  Pete;  but  to  follow  another  trapper  journeying 
by  canoe  was  not  so  easy.  Halts  for  night  camps 
he  must  of  course  make,  collections  of  drift  in  some 
narrow  part  of  the  stream  he  would  inevitably  dis- 
turb, and  where  a  carry  around  a  rapid  came,  a  trail 
would  be  left.  These  were  the  only  signs  possible 
to  discover,  and  for  these  Pete  now  watched. 

The  slow-running  waterway  he  ascended  the  first 
day  wound  through  a  stately  forest  of  spruce.  Its 
banks  were  low  and  well  defined,  yet  always  covered 
by  undergrowth.  No  breaks  in  them,  no  openings 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  177 

where  a  night  halt  would  naturally  be  made;  but 
ever  of  the  same  unvarying  character,  and  shadowed 
by  the  overhang  of  interlaced  boughs.  With  one 
eye  keen  to  any  even  the  slightest  signs  of  human 
progress  up  this  stream,  and  ears  ever  alert,  Pete 
paddled  on.  Wildwood  sights  and  sounds,  however, 
were  met  in  plenty.  Once  a  lordly  moose,  seeing 
or  smelling  him,  snorted  and  plunged  away,  crashing 
through  the  undergrowth.  Deer  were  seen  or  heard 
at  every  turn  of  the  stream,  and  dozens  of  musk- 
rats  were  noticed  swimming  or  diving  off  the  bank, 
with  now  and  then  an  otter  or  a  mink,  to  vary  this 
monotony. 

But  these  were  of  no  interest  to  Pete.  He  was 
trailing  other  game,  and  like  an  avenging  Nemesis, 
slowly  crept  through  this  vast,  sombre,  and  for- 
bidding forest.  When  nightfall  neared,  he  hauled 
his  canoe  out  where  a  stretch  of  hard  bank  favored, 
and  camped  for  the  night,  and  when  daylight  came 
again,  he  pushed  on.  For  three  days  this  watchful, 
up-stream  journey  was  continued,  and  then  a  range 
of  low  mountains  began  to  close  in,  short  rapids 
needing  the  use  of  a  setting-pole  were  met,  and  at 
last  a  series  of  stair-like  falls  was  sighted  ahead. 
The  sun  was  well  down  when  these  were  reached. 
How  long  the  necessary  carry  might  be,  he  could  not 


178  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

tell,  and  hauling  out  below  the  rapids,  Pete  took  his 
rifle  and  crept  up  along  the  bank.  So  far  not  a  sign 
indicating  whether  or  not  McGuire  had  gone  up  this 
stream  had  been  found,  but  here,  if  anywhere,  they 
must  be  met,  and  Pete  watched  eagerly  for  them. 

Every  rock  where  a  human  foot  might  scrape  away 
the  moss  was  scanned.  Each  bending  bough  and 
bush  was  observed,  and  when,  perforce,  he  had  to 
leave  the  rock-lined  bank  and  make  a  detour,  he  still 
watched  for  signs. 

At  the  top  of  this  long  pitch,  the  tall  trees  also 
ended,  and  here  the  stream  issued  from  a  vast  bush- 
grown  swamp  devoid  of  timber.  A  few  dead  trees 
rose  from  it,  and  climbing  a  low  spruce,  Pete  saw 
this  whitened  expanse  of  spectral  cones  extended  for 
miles.  It  was  a  forbidding  prospect.  The  stream's 
course  appeared  visible  only  a  few  rods.  It  seemed 
hardly  probable  the  man  he  was  trailing  would  cross 
this  swamp.  No  signs  of  his  ascending  this  water- 
way had  so  far  been  met,  and  Pete,  now  discouraged, 
was  about  to  return  to  his  canoe  and  on  the  morn  go 
back,  when,  glancing  across  the  stream,  he  saw  a 
tiny  opening  in  the  bushes,  as  if  they  had  been  pushed 
aside. 

To  cross,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock  in  the  rapids 
below,  was  his  next  move,  and  returning  to  where 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  179 

the  fall  began,  there,  just  back  from  this  point,  and 
beside  a  ledge,  were  the  charred  embers  of  a  camp- 
fire. 

Weeks  old,  without  doubt,  for  rain  had  fallen  on 
them,  and  all  about  were  the  footprints  of  some  one 
wearing  boots. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"Tain't  allus  the  bell  cow  that  gives  the  most  milk." 

—  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

OLD  CY  was,  above  all,  a  peaceable  man,  and 
while  curiosity  had  led  him  to  follow  the  trail  of  this 
robber  and  to  cross  this  vast  swamp,  now  that  he 
saw  the  suggestive  smoke  sign,  he  hesitated  about 
venturing  nearer. 

"I  guess  we'd  best  be  keerful,"  he  whispered  to 
Ray,  "or  we  may  wish  we  had  been.  I  callate  our 
pirate  friend's  got  a  hidin'  spot  over  thar,  'n'  most 
likely  don't  want  callers.  He  may  be  only  a  queer 
old  trapper  a  little  short  o'  scruples  ag'in'  takin' 
what  he  finds,  'n'  then  ag'in  he  may  be  worse'n  that. 
His  campin'  spot's  ag'in'  him,  anyhow." 

But  the  sun  was  now  very  low ;  a  camp  site  must 
soon  be  found,  and  scarce  two  minutes  from  the  time 
he  saw  this  rising  column  of  smoke,  Old  Cy  dipped 
his  paddle  and  slowly  drew  back  into  the  protecting 
forest.  Once  well  out  of  sight,  the  canoe  was  turned 
and  they  sped  back  down-stream  and  into  the  swamp 
once  more.  Here  he  turned  aside  into  a  lagoon  they 

180 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  l8l 

had  passed,  and  at  its  head  they  pulled  their  canoe 
out  into  the  bog. 

The  two  gathered  up  their  belongings,  and  pick- 
ing their  way  out  of  the  morass,  reached  the  belt  of 
hard  bottom  skirting  the  ridge.  They  were  now  out 
of  sight  from  the  lake,  but  still  too  near  the  stream  to 
risk  a  camp-fire,  and  so  Old  Cy  led  the  way  along  this 
belt  until  a  more  secluded  niche  in  the  ridge  was 
reached,  and  here  they  began  camp- making.  It 
was  a  simple  process.  A  level  spot  was  cleared 
from  brush,  two  convenient  saplings  denuded  of 
their  lower  limbs,  a  cross  pole  was  placed  in  suit- 
able crotches,  near-by  spruces  were  attacked  with  the 
axe,  and  a  bark  wigwam  soon  resulted,  and  just 
as  the  darkness  began  to  gather,  a  fire  was  started. 

Both  Old  Cy  and  Ray  had  worked  with  a  will,  and 
none  too  soon  was  so  much  accomplished,  for  night 
was  upon  them,  and  only  by  the  firelight  could  they 
see  to  complete  the  needful  preparations. 

A  peculiar  effect  of  the  time,  place,  and  their 
position  was  also  noticeable;  for  although  at  least 
a  mile  away  from  where  this  smoke  sign  had  warned 
them,  and  screened  from  it  by  a  high  ridge,  both 
spoke  only  in  whispers.  More  than  that,  the  camp- 
fire  was  kept  low,  barely  enough  to  cook  a  modest 
meal,  and  when  the  flame  chanced  to  flare  up,  Old 


182  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Cy  glanced  aloft  into  the  tree-tops  to  see  if  they  were 
illumed.  Not  much  was  said,  for  Old  Cy's  thoughts 
were  far  away,  and  when  supper  was  eaten  he  lit 
his  pipe  and  sat  watching  the  embers  while  Ray 
studied  him.  Ray,  too,  spoke  scarcely  a  word.  All 
that  day  he  had  felt  much  the  same,  and  while  he  had 
the  most  implicit  confidence  in  Old  Cy's  wisdom, 
now  that  he  had  advised  retreat,  the  reasons  for  it 
became  ten  times  more  ominous  to  Ray. 

Then  again,  the  sombre  nook  in  which  they  had 
camped  and  the  vast  swamp  that  lay  between  them 
and  the  protecting  cabin,  all  had  an  effect.  This 
weird  feeling  was  also  added  to  by  the  occasional 
cry  of  some  night  prowler  far  away  in  the  forest  or 
out  in  the  swamp.  Chip's  spites,  those  uncanny 
creatures  of  the  imagination,  also  began  to  gather, 
and  Ray  fancied  he  could  hear  them  crawling 
cautiously  about. 

"I  don't  like  this,"  he  whispered  at  last,  "and 
I  wish  we  hadn't  come.  Don't  you  think  we  had 
better  go  back  soon  as  it's  daylight?" 

"Wai,  mebbe,"  answered  Old  Cy,  smiling  at 
Ray's  nervousness.  "  I've  kinder  figgered  we  might 
watch  out  from  a-top  o'  the  ridge  when  mornin' 
came  'n'  see  what  we  ,kin  see.  We  might  ketch 
sight  o'  the  pirate  chap  'cross  the  lake." 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  183 

"But  suppose  he  catches  sight  of  us,"  returned 
Ray,  "what  then?" 

"I  don't  mean  he  shall,"  answered  Old  Cy,  "so 
don't  git  skeered.  I'll  take  keer  on  ye." 

That  night,  however,  was  the  longest  ever  passed 
by  Ray,  for  not  until  near  morning  did  he  fall  into 
a  fitful  slumber,  and  scarcely  had  he  lost  himself 
before  Old  Cy  was  up  and  watching  for  the 
dawn. 

Its  first  faint  glow  was  visible  when  Ray's  eyes 
opened,  and  without  waiting  for  fire  or  breakfast, 
they  started  for  the  top  of  the  ridge.  From  here  a 
curious  sight  met  their  eyes,  for  the  lake  and  also 
the  ridges  out  of  which  the  smoke  had  risen  were 
hidden  beneath  a  white  pall  of  fog.  Back  of  them 
also,  and  completely  coating  the  immense  swamp, 
was  the  same  sea  of  vapor.  It  soon  vanished  with 
the  rising  sun,  and  just  as  the  ledges  across  the  lake 
outlined  themselves,  once  more  that  smoke  sign 
rose  aloft. 

And  now  the  two  watchers  could  better  see  whence 

i 

it  came.  Old  Cy  had  expected  to  obtain  sight  of 
some  hut  or  bark  shack  nestling  among  these  rocks ; 
but  none  was  visible.  Instead,  the  smoke  rose  out 
of  a  jagged  rock,  and  there  was  not  a  cabin  roof 
or  sign  of  one  anywhere. 


184  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"That  feller's  in  a  cave,"  he  whispered  to  Ray, 
"an'  the  smoke's  comin'  out  o'  a  crack,  sure's  a  gun !" 

It  seemed  so,  and  for  a  half-hour  the  two  watched 
it  in  silent  amazement. 

Then  came  another  surprise,  for  suddenly  Old 
Cy  caught  sight  of  a  man  just  emerging  from  behind 
a  rock  fully  ten  rods  from  the  rising  smoke;  he 
stooped,  lifted  a  canoe  into  view,  advanced  to  the 
shore,  slid  it  halfway  into  the  water,  returned  to 
the  rock,  picked  up  a  rifle,  then  pushed  the  canoe 
off,  and,  crossing  the  lake,  vanished  into  the  outlet. 

The  two  watchers  on  the  ridge  exchanged  glances. 

"He's  goin'  to  tend  his  traps,  an'  mebbe  ourn," 
Old  Cy  said  at  last,  and  then  led  the  way  back  to 
their  bark  shack.  Here  he  halted,  and  placing  one 
hand  scoop-fashion  over  his  ear,  listened  intently 
until  he  caught  the  faint  sound  of  a  paddle  touching 
a  canoe  gunwale.  First  slightly,  then  a  more  distinc- 
tive thud,  and  then  less  and  less  until  the  sound 
ceased. 

"The  coast's  clear,"  he  added,  now  in  an  exult- 
ant whisper,  "an'  while  the  old  cat's  away  we'll 
take  a  peek  at  his  den." 

A  hurried  gathering  of  their  few  belongings  was 
made,  the  canoe  was  shoved  into  the  lagoon,  and  no 
time  was  lost  until  the  lake  was  crossed  and  they  drew 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  185 

alongside  of  where  the  smoke  was  still  rising  in  a 
thin  film.  No  landing  was  possible  here,  for  the 
shore  was  a  sheer  face  of  upright  slate,  and  only 
where  this  lone  trapper  had  launched  his  canoe 
could  they  make  one. 

From  here  a  series  of  outcropping  slate  ledges 
rose  one  above  another,  and  between  them  and 
parallel  to  the  shore,  narrow,  irregular  passages 
partially  closed  by  broken  rock.  It  was  all  of  slaty 
formation,  jagged,  serrated,  and  gray  with  moss. 

Following  one  of  these  passages,  Old  Cy  and  Ray 
came  to  the  ledge  out  of  which  the  smoke  was  rising 
from  a  crevasse.  It  was  a  little  lower  than  one  in 
front,  perhaps  forty  feet  in  breadth,  double  that  in 
length,  and  of  a  more  even  surface.  At  each  end 
was  a  short  transverse  passage  hardly  wide  enough 
to  walk  in,  and  a  few  feet  deep. 

And  now,  after  a  more  careful  examination  of 
the  crevasse  out  of  which  the  thin  film  of  smoke 
rose,  Old  Cy  began  a  search.  Up  and  down  each 
narrow  passway  he  peeped  and  peered,  but  nowhere 
was  a  crack  or  cranny  to  be  found  in  their  walls. 
In  places  they  were  as  high  as  his  head,  sheer  faces 
of  slate,  then  broken,  serrated,  moss-coated,  or  of 
yellow,  rusty  color.  Here  and  there  a  stunted 
spruce  had  taken  root  in  some  crack,  and  over, 


l86  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

back  from  the  topmost  ledge,  this  green  enclosure 
began  and  continued  up  the  low  mountain.  Here, 
also,  in  a  sunny  nook  below  this  belting  tangle  of 
scrub  spruce,  were  ample  signs  of  a  trapper's  occu- 
pation in  the  way  of  pelts  stretched  upon  forked 
sticks  and  hanging  from  a  cord  crossing  this  niche. 
They  were  of  the  usual  species  found  in  this  wilder- 
ness, —  a  dozen  muskrat,  with  a  few  mink  and  otter 
skins  and  one  lynx. 

Another  sign  of  human  presence  was  also  noted, 
for  here  a  log  showing  axe-marks,  with  split  wood 
and  chips  all  about,  was  seen. 

"Some  o'  them  pelts  is  ourn,"  Old  Cy  ejaculated, 
glancing  at  the  array,  "an*  I've  a  notion  we'd 
best  hook  on  to  'em.  Mebbe  not,  though,"  he 
added  a  moment  later,  "it  might  git  us  into  more 
trouble." 

But  Ray  was  getting  more  and  more  uneasy  each 
moment  since  they  had  landed  there.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  most  dangerous  exploit,  and  while  Old 
Cy  had  hunted  over  this  curious  confusion  of  slate 
ledges  and  stared  at  the  rising  film  of  smoke,  Ray 
had  covertly  watched  the  lake's  outlet. 

"I  don't  think  we'd  better  stay  here  much  longer," 
he  said  at  last.  "  We  can't  tell  how  soon  that  man 
may  come  back  and  catch  us." 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  187 

"Guess  you're  right,"  Old  Cy  asserted  tersely, 
and  after  one  more  look  at  the  inch-wide  crack  out 
of  which  the  smoke  rose,  he  led  the  way  to  their 
canoe. 

"Thar's  a  cave  thar,  sure's  a  gun,"  he  muttered, 
as  they  skirted  the  bold  shore  once  more,  "an'  that 
smoke's  comin'  out  on't.  I  wish  I  dared  stay  here 
a  little  longer  V  hunt  fer  it." 

Old  Cy  was  right,  there  was  a  cave  there  beneath 
the  slate  ledge  —  in  fact,  two  caves ;  and  in  one, 
safe  and  secure,  as  its  owner  the  notorious  McGuire 
believed,  were  concealed  the  savings  of  his  lifetime. 

More  than  that,  so  near  do  we  often  come  to  an 
important  discovery  and  miss  it,  Old  Cy  had  twice 
leaned  against  a  slab  of  slate  closing  the  entrance  to 
this  cave  and  access  to  a  fortune,  the  heritage  of 
Chip  McGuire. 

Ray's  fears,  while  well  founded,  were  needless, 
however.  McGuire  —  for  it  was  this  outlaw  whom 
they  had  ample  reason  to  avoid — was  many  miles 
away.  And  yet  so  potent  was  the  sense  of  danger, 
that  neither  Old  Cy  nor  Ray  thought  of  food,  or 
ceased  paddling  one  moment,  until  they  had  crossed 
the  vast  swamp  and  once  more  pulled  their  canoe 
out  at  the  point  where  they  had  entered  it  the  day 
before. 


l88  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Here  a  brief  halt  for  food  and  rest  was  taken; 
then  they  shouldered  their  light  craft  and  started  for 
Birch  Camp. 

In  the  meantime  another  canoe  was  ascending 
this  winding  stream,  and  long  before  nightfall,  Pete 
Bolduc,  sure  that  he  was  on  the  trail  of  McGuire, 
entered  the  ledge-bordered  lake. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"If  most  on  us  cud  see  ourselves  as  the  rest  see  us,  we'd 
want  to  be  hermits."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

To  trail  an  enemy  who  is  never  without  a  rifle  and 
the  will  to  use  it,  requires  courage  and  Indian  cunning 
as  well.  Pete  Bolduc  had  both,  and  after  observing 
the  many  signs  of  a  trapper's  presence  in  the  swamp, 
he  knew,  after  he  crossed  it  and  reached  this  lake, 
that  somewhere  on  its  shores,  his  enemy,  McGuire, 
had  his  lair. 

He  paused  at  the  outlet,  as  did  Old  Cy,  to  scan 
every  rod  of  its  rocky  shores,  not  once,  but  a  dozen 
times. 

The  sun  was  now  halfway  down.  A  mellow 
autumn  haze  softened  the  encircling  mountains  and 
the  broad,  frowning  peak  to  the  right.  A  gentle 
breeze  rippled  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  and  here, 
in  the  wild  rice  growing  along  its  borders,  stood  a 
deer,  belly-deep  in  the  green  growth. 

No  thought  of  the  blessed  harmony  of  lake,  sky, 
and  forest,  or  the  sequestered  beauty  of  this  spot, 
came  to  the  half-breed.  Revenge  and  murder  — 
189 


THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

twin  demons  of  his  nature  —  were  in  his  heart,  and 
the  Indian  cunning  that  made  him  hide  while  he 
watched  for  signs  of  his  enemy.  The  bare  peak 
overlooking  the  lake  soon  impressed  him  as  a  van- 
tage point,  and  after  a  half-hour  of  watchful  listen- 
ing he  laid  his  rifle  across  the  thwart,  handy  to  grasp 
on  the  instant,  and,  seizing  his  paddle  once  more, 
crossed  the  lake  to  the  foot  of  the  peak. 

To  hide  his  canoe  here,  ascend  this  with  pack  and 
rifle,  was  the  next  move  of  this  human  panther,  and 
here  in  a  sheltering  crevasse  he  lay  and  watched  for 
his  enemy. 

Two  hours  later,  and  just  at  sunset,  McGuire 
returned  to  the  lake. 

As  usual,  he,  too,  paused  at  the  outlet  to  scan  its 
shores.  He  believed  himself  utterly  secure  here,  and 
thought  no  human  being  was  likely  to  find  this 
lakelet.  But  for  all  that,  he  was  watchful.  Some 
exploring  lumberman  or  some  pioneer  trapper 
might  cross  this  vast  swamp  and  find  this  lake 
during  his  absence. 

A  brief  scrutiny  assured  him  that  he  was  still  safe 
from  human  eyes,  and  he  crossed  the  lake. 

From  the  bare  cliff  a  single  keen  and  vengeful 
eye  watched  him. 

As  usual,  also,  McGuire  made  his  landing  at  a 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  Ipl 

convenient  point,  some  fifty  rods  from  his  cave,  and 
carried  his  canoe  up  and  turned  it  over,  back  of 
a  low-jutting  ridge  of  slate.  He  skinned  the  half- 
dozen  prizes  his  traps  had  secured  that  day  and 
followed  a  shallow  defile  to  his  lair.  Here  his  pelts 
were  stretched,  a  slab  of  slate  was  lifted  from  its 
position  in  a  deep,  wide  crevasse  between  two  of  these 
ledges,  and  McGuire  crawled  into  his  den. 

Most  of  these  movements  were  observed  by  the 
half-breed,  who,  watching  ever  while  he  plotted  and 
planned  how  best  to  catch  his  enemy  unawares,  saw 
him  emerge  from  amid  the  ledges  again,  go  down 
to  the  lake,  return  with  a  pail  of  water,  and  vanish 
once  more. 

All  this  was  a  curious  proceeding,  for  he,  like  Old 
Cy,  had  expected  to  find  McGuire  occupying  some 
bark  shelter,  and  even  now  he  supposed  there  was 
one  among  this  confusion  of  bare  rocks. 

Another  surprise  soon  came  to  this  distant  watcher, 
for  he  now  saw  a  thin  column  of  smoke  rise  from  a 
ledge  and  continue  in  varying  volume  until  hidden 
by  twilight. 

And  now,  secure  in  his  cave  and  quite  unconscious 
of  the  watcher  with  murderous  intent  who  had  ob- 
served his  actions,  McGuire  was  enjoying  himself. 
He  had  built  a  little  slate  fireplace  within  his  cave. 


192  THE  GERL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

A  funnel  of  the  same  easily  fitted  material  carried  the 
smoke  up  to  a  long,  inch-wide  fissure  in  the  roof.  He 
had  a  table  of  slate  to  eat  from,  handy  by  a  bed 
filled  with  moss  and  dry  grass,  also  pine  knots  for 
needed  light. 

Opening  into  this  small  cave  was  a  lesser  one, 
always  cool  and  dry,  for  no  rain  nor  melting  snow 
could  enter  it,  and  here  was  McGuire's  pantry,  and 
here  also  a  half-dozen  tin  cans,  safely  hidden 
under  a  slab  of  slate,  stuffed  with  gold  and  bank- 
notes. 

To  still  further  protect  this  inner  cave,  he  had  fitted 
a  section  of  slate  to  entirely  fill  its  entrance. 

When  the  last  vestige  of  sunset  had  vanished  and 
twinkling  stars  were  reflected  from  the  placid  lake, 
the  half-breed  descended  from  his  lookout  point,  and, 
launching  his  canoe,  followed  close  to  the  shadowed 
shore  and  landed  just  above  where  McGuire  dis- 
embarked. Indian  that  he  was,  he  chose  the  hours 
of  night  and  darkness  to  crawl  up  to  the  bark  shelter 
which  he  expected  to  find,  his  intention  being  to 
thrust  a  rifle  muzzle  close  to  his  enemy's  head  and 
then  pull  the  trigger. 

But  to  do  this  required  a  long  wait  and  extreme 
caution.  His  enemy  surely  had  a  camp-fire  behind  a 
ledge,  and  shelter  as  well.  The  smoke  had  seemed 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  193 

to  rise  out  of  a  ledge,  but  certainly  could  not,  and  so 

—  still  unaware  of  McGuire's   position,   yet   sure 
that  he  was  amid  these  ledges,  and  near  a  shelter 

—  Pete  grasped  his  rifle  and  crept  ashore. 

It  was  too  early  to  surprise  his  enemy  —  time  to 
fall  asleep  must  be  allowed.  Yet  so  eager  was  the 
half-breed  to  deal  death  to  him,  that  he  must  needs 
come  here  to  wait.  No  chances  must  be  taken 
when  he  did  crawl  up  to  his  victim,  for  a  false 
step  or  the  rattle  of  a  loose  stone,  or  his  form 
outlined  against  the  starlit  sky  as  he  crawled  over 
a  ledge,  might  mean  death  to  him  instead  of 
McGuire.  And  so,  crouching  safely  in  a  dark 
nook  above  the  landing,  Pete  waited,  watched,  and 
listened. 

One  hour  passed  —  it  seemed  two  —  and  then  the 
half-breed  crept  stealthily  up  to  where  the  smoke 
had  been  seen.  Not  by  strides,  or  even  steps,  but 
as  a  panther  would,  lifting  one  foot  and  feeling 
where  it  would  rest  and  then  another,  and  all  the 
while  listening  and  advancing  again. 

It  was  McGuire's  habit,  while  staying  here,  to 
look  at  the  weather  prospects  each  night,  and  also 
to  obtain  a  drink  of  cool  lake  water  before  going  to 
sleep. 

Often  when  the  evenings  were  not  too  cold,  he 


194  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

would  sit  by  the  lake  shore  for  a  half-hour,  smoking 
and  watching  its  starlit  or  moon-glittering  surface, 
and  listening  to  the  calls  of  night  prowlers. 

In  spite  of  being  an  outlaw,  devoid  of  moral  nature, 
and  one  who  preyed  upon  his  fellow-man,  he  was  not 
without  sentiment,  and  the  wild  grandeur  of  these 
enclosing  mountains,  and  the  sense  of  security  they 
gave,  were  pleasant  to  him.  His  life  had  been  a  harsh 
and  brutal  one.  He  had  dealt  in  man's  lust  and 
love  of  liquor.  He  measured  all  humankind  by 
his  own  standard  of  right  and  wrong,  and  believed 
that  he  must  rob  others  or  they  would  rob  him.  He 
Jiad  followed  that  belief  implicitly  from  the  start, 
and  would  so  long  as  he  lived.  He  felt  that  every 
man's  hand  was  against  him,  and  no  reproaches  of 
conscience  had  resulted  from  his  cold-blooded  killing 
of  an  officer.  Never  once  did  the  thought  return 
of  the  few  years  when  a  woman's  hand  sought  his  in 
tenderness,  nor  any  sense  of  the  unspeakable  horror 
he  had  decreed  for  his  own  child. 

So  vile  a  wretch  seemed  unfit  for  God's  green  earth ; 
and  yet  the  silence  of  night  beside  this  lake,  and  the 
stars  mirrored  on  its  motionless  surface,  soothed  and 
satisfied  him. 

He  had  now  and  then  another  impulse  —  to 
some  day  take  his  savings  of  many  years,  secreted 


He  grasped  and  struck  at  this  enemy  in  a  blind  instinct 
of  self-preservation. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  195 

here,  and  go  to  some  other  country,  assume  another 
name,  and  lead  a  different  life. 

And  now,  while  an  unsuspected  enemy  was  wait- 
ing for  him  to  enter  a  sleep  that  should  know  no 
waking,  he  left  his  cave  and  seated  himself  on  a 
shelf-like  projection  close  to  the  lake,  which  was 
deep  here,  and  the  ledge  shore  a  sheer  face  rising 
some  ten  feet  above  the  water. 

One  hour  or  more  this  strange  compound  of  brute 
and  man  sat  there  contemplating  the  stars,  and  then 
he  suddenly  detected  a  sound  —  only  a  faint  one,  the 
mere  click  of  one  pebble  striking  another. 

He  arose  and  listened. 

Soon  another  soft,  crushing  sound  reached  him. 
Some  animal  creeping  along  in  the  passage  between 
the  ledges,  he  thought. 

He  stepped  quickly  to  the  end  of  the  shelf.  On 
that  instant  a  crouching  form  rose  upward  and  con- 
fronted him. 

He  had  one  moment  only,  but  enough  to  see  a  tall 
man  a  step  below  him,  the  next  a  flash  of  spitting  fire, 
a  stinging  pain  in  one  shoulder,  and  this  human 
panther  leaped  upon  McGuire ! 

But  life  was  sweet,  even  to  McGuire,  and  as  he 
grasped  and  struck  at  this  enemy  in  a  blind  instinct 
of  self-preservation  as  both  closed  in  a  death-grapple, 


196  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

one  instant  of  awful  agony  came  to  him  as  a  knife 
entered  his  heart  —  a  yell  of  mingled  hate  and 
deadly  fear,  as  two  bodies  writhed  on  the  narrow 
shelf,  a  plunging  sound,  as  both  struck  the  water 
below  —  and  then  silence. 

Death  and  vengeance  were  clasped  in  one  eternal 
embrace. 


CHAPTER  XX 

"  Thar's  two  things  it  don't  pay  to  worry  'bout,  —  those  ye 
can  help  V  and  those  ye  can't."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

WHEN  Old  Cy  and  Ray  once  more  made  their 
way  up  the  Beaver  Brook  valley,  it  was  with  the 
feeling  that  this  lone  and  sinister  trapper  might  be 
met  at  any  moment.  They  dared  not  leave  their 
canoe  where  it  might  be  easily  found,  but  adopting 
Indian  tactics,  Old  Cy  cunningly  hid  it  in  a  rank 
growth  of  swamp  grass,  and  oft  doubling  on  their 
own  tracks  and  wading  the  shallow  stream,  left  only 
a  confusing  trail. 

When  the  deadfalls  had  been  visited  and  they 
began  gum-gathering  again,  they  watched  con- 
stantly for  an  enemy. 

A  dense  forest  of  tall  spruces  is  at  best  a  weird  and 
ill-omened  spot.  Its  vastness  appalls,  its  shadows 
seem  spectral,  and  every  natural  object  becomes 
grotesque  and  distorted.  An  overturned  stump 
with  bleaching  roots  appears  like  a  hideous  devil- 
fish with  arms  ready  to  entwine  and  crush.  A 
twisted  tree  trunk,  prone,  rotting,  and  coated  with 

197 


198  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

moss,  looks  like  a  huge  green  serpent,  and  even  a 
knot  in  the  side  of  a  big  spruce  will  resemble  a  grin- 
ning gnome.  Even  the  sunlight  flitting  through  the 
dense  canopy  plays  fantastic  tricks,  and  every  breath 
of  wind  becomes  the  moan  of  troubled  spirits. 

Something  of  this  weird  impress  now  assailed  Old 
Cy  and  more  especially  Ray,  and  after  two  days  of 
unpleasant  work  in  this  part  of  the  wilderness,  they 
gave  it  up. 

"I  don't  like  feelin'  I'm  bein'  watched,"  Old  Cy 
observed  when  they  once  more  started  for  home, 
"an*  to-morrer  I  guess  we'd  best  go  'nother  way. 
Thar's  a  good  spruce  growth  over  beyond  the  hog- 
back, 'n'  I'd  feel  safer  leavin'  the  canoe  whar  Amzi 
kin  keep  an  eye  on't.  We  kin  come  up  now  once 
a  week  'n'  tend  the  deadfalls  'n'  not  leave  the  canoe 
more'n  an  hour." 

Little  did  Old  Cy  realize  how  groundless  his  fears 
now  were,  or  that  fathoms  deep,  in  a  cold,  moun- 
tain-hid lake,  the  thieving  McGuire  and  the  im- 
placable half-breed  were  now  locked  in  the  clasp  of 
death. 

A  change  of  location,  however,  banished  somewhat 
of  this  spectral  presence,  and  although  Old  Cy  was 
ever  alert  and  watchful,  he  showed  no  sign  of  it. 

Ray,  more  volatile  and  with  implicit  faith  in  his 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  199 

protector,  soon  returned  to  normal  condition  of  mind 
and  once  more  entered  into  the  spirit  of  their  work 
and  sport  with  a  keen  zest. 

The  traps  gave  increased  returns,  the  little  bin  where 
they  stored  their  gum  was  filling  slowly  but  surely,  and 
their  life  at  this  wildwood  home  became  enjoyable. 

Neither  was  it  all  labor,  for  the  ducks  now  migrat- 
ing southward  were  alighting  in  the  lake  by  thou- 
sands, a  few  hours'  shooting  at  them  from  ambush 
made  glorious  sport,  and  what  with  all  the  partridges 
they  had  secured  and  these  additions,  their  ice- 
house was  soon  unable  to  hold  another  bird. 

But  the  halcyon  days  of  autumn  were  fast  passing 
and  signs  of  nearing  winter  were  now  visible.  Ice 
began  to  form  in  little  coves,  the  ducks  ceased 
coming,  soon  the  last  of  them  had  departed,  the  leaves 
of  all  hardwood  trees  were  now  joining  in  a  hurry- 
scurry  dance  with  every  passing  breeze,  the  days 
were  of  a  suggestive  shortness,  and  soon  the  grim 
and  merciless  snow  —  the  White  Spirit  of  Old  Tomah 
—  would  be  sweeping  over  the  wilderness. 

And  then  one  night  the  Frost  King  silently  touched 
that  rippled  lake  with  his  wand  and  the  next  morn- 
ing Old  Cy  and  Ray  looked  out  upon  its  motionless 
expanse  of  black  ice.  The  sky  was  also  leaden,  an 
ominous  stillness  brooded  over  forest,  lake,  and 


2OO  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

mountain,  and  midway  of  that  day,  the  first  snow- 
fall came. 

Old  Cy  and  Ray  were  a  mile  away  from  the  cabinr 
busy  at  gum-gathering,  when  the  first  flakes  sifted 
down  through  the  canopied  spruce  tops.  Soon  the 
carpet  of  needles  began  to  whiten,  and  by  mid-after- 
noon they  had  to  abandon  work  and  return. 

"I  guess  we  come  pretty  clus  to  bein'  prisoners 
now,"  Old  Cy  ejaculated  when  he  shook  himself 
free  from  the  white  coating  on  the  cabin  porch,  "but 
we've  got  to  make  the  best  on't.  We'll  git  warm 
fust  'n'  then  go  'n'  fetch  our  canoe  up  'n'  stow  it  in 
the  shed.  We  ain't  like  to  want  it  ag'in  'fore  spring. 
One  thing  is  sartin,"  he  added,  when  the  fire  began 
to  blaze  in  the  open  fireplace,  "we  are  sure  o'  keepin* 
warm  'n'  'nuff  to  eat  this  winter,  'n'  that's  all  we  really 
need  in  life,  anyway.  The  rest  on't  is  mostly  im- 
agination." 

But  in  spite  of  his  serene  philosophy,  Old  Cy  had 
dreaded  the  coming  of  winter  more  than  Ray  could 
guess,  and  all  on  account  of  that  lad.  He  himself 
knew  what  a  winter  meant  in  this  wilderness  cabin, 
while  Ray  did  not.  Separated  as  they  were  from 
civilization  by  a  full  hundred  miles,  and  from  Tim's 
place  by  forty,  they  were,  as  he  stated,  practically 
prisoners  for  the  next  five  months. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  201 

To  escape  on  snow-shoes  was  possible,  of  course, 
if  the  need  arose,  and  yet  it  would  be  a  pretty  serious 
venture,  after  all. 

They  were  in  no  particular  danger,  however. 
With  plenty  of  food  and  fuel,  they  need  not  suffer. 
If  the  cabin  burned,  they  could  erect  another  shelter 
or  use  the  old  one.  Something  of  diversion  could 
be  obtained  from  ice-fishing  or  gum-gathering  on 
warm  days;  but  not  enough,  as  Old  Cy  feared,  to 
keep  Ray  content  and  free  from  the  megrims. 

None  of  these  fears  escaped  Old  Cy,  however.  He 
was  too  wise  for  that ;  and  moreover,  in  order  to 
inspire  Ray,  he  now  began  to  affect  an  almost  boyish 
interest  in  the  snow  coming  and  its  enjoyments. 

"We  can't  do  much  more  trappin',"  he  said  that 
first  winter  evening  beside  the  fire  while  the  snow 
beat  against  the  windows,  "but  we  kin  hev  some 
fun  keepin'  warm  an'  cookin',  'n'  when  the  snow 
hardens  a  bit  we  kin  go  fer  gum  again,  or  set  tip-ups. 
We've  got  more'n  a  million  shiners  in  the  cage  up 
the  brook,  'n'  'fore  it  gits  too  cold,  we'll  ketch  a  lot 
o'  trout." 

It  was  this  faculty  for  adaptation  to  the  situation, 
this  making  the  best  of  all  circumstances  and  seizing 
all  opportunities  for  pleasure  or  profit,  that  was 
Old  Cy's  woodwise  characteristic.  No  matter  if  it 


202  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

stormed,  he  knew  that  the  sun  shone  behind  the 
clouds.  No  matter  if  they  were  utterly  isolated  in 
this  wilderness,  he  still  saw  ways  of  enjoyment,  and 
even  when  snowbound,  or  shut  in  by  zero  weather, 
he  would  still  find  interest  in  cooking,  keeping  warm, 
or  getting  ready  to  fish,  or  in  gathering  gum,  when 
the  chance  came. 

But  winter  had  now  come  upon  them  with  a  sud- 
den swoop.  The  next  day  snow  fell  incessantly,  and 
when  the  sun  shone  again,  a  two-foot  level  of  it  hid 
the  lake. 

Then,  as  if  to  test  Ray's  spirits,  the  temperature 
kept  well  below  freezing  for  the  next  week,  the  wind 
blew  continuously,  sweeping  the  snow  into  drifts, 
and  all  the  three  could  do,  as  Old  Cy  said,  was  to 
"cook  vittles  and  keep  warm." 

And  now  for  the  first  time,  Ray  began  to  show 
homesickness.  From  the  day  Chip  had  left,  not 
once  had  he  mentioned  her  or  his  aunt  or  uncle  in 
any  way.  He  had  kept  step,  as  it  were,  with  Old  Cy 
in  all  things  adventurous  as  well  as  labor  and  sport. 

The  possible,  even  certain  gain  in  the  money 
value  of  the  furs  and  gum  which  they  had  secured, 
coupled  with  their  adventurous  life,  had  occupied 
his  every  thought ;  but  now  that  he  could  only  help 
Old  Cy  indoors,  he  began  to  mope. 


CHIP  MCGUIKE  203 

"I  wonder  what  they  are  doing  now  down  in 
Greenvale,"  he  said  one  evening  after  they  had 
gathered  about  the  fire.  "I  wish  we  could  hear 
from  'em." 

It  was  the  first  sign  of  homesickness  which  Old  Cy 
had  so  long  dreaded  to  see  in  him. 

"Oh,  they  ain't  havin'  half  the  fun  we  are,"  Old 
Cy  answered  cheerfully.  "  Jest  now  I  callate  Chip's 
studyin'  'longside  o'  Aunt  Comfort's  fire;  mebbe 
Angie  'n'  Martin's  over  to  Dr.  Sol's,  swappin'  yarns. 
To-morrer  Chip'll  go  ter  school,  ez  usual,  'n'  when 
Sunday  comes  they'll  all  dress  up  'n'  go  ter  meetin'. 
One  thing  is  sartin,  they  ain't  takin'  any  more  com- 
fort'n  we  are,  or  gittin'  better  things  to  eat.  If  the 
weather  warms  up,  ez  I  callate  it  will  in  a  day  or  two, 
we'll  pull  some  trout  out  o'  the  lake  that  'ud  make 
all  Greenvale  stare.  They  allus  bite  sharp  arter 
a  cold  spell.  Ez  fer  Chip,"  he  continued,  eying 
Ray's  sober  face,  "she  ain't  goin'  to  fergit  ye,  never 
fear,  an'  when  I  take  ye  out  o'  the  woods  in  the 
spring  'n'  start  ye  fer  Greenvale  with  five  hundred 
dollars  in  yer  inside  pocket,  ez  I  callate,  ye'll  feel's 
though  ye  owned  the  hull  town  when  ye  git  thar, 
an'  Chip'll  feel  ez  tho'  she  owned  ye." 

"I  wish  I  could  hear  how  they  are  once  in  a 
while,"  Ray  rejoined.  "They  may  be  sick." 


204  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

That  "they"  meant  Chip  was  self-evident. 

Once  a  mood  comes  upon  a  person,  it  is  hard 
to  change  it,  and  of  all  the  moods  that  torture 
poor  human  beings,  the  love  mood  is  the  most 
implacable.  While  the  zest  of  trapping  was  upon 
Ray,  he  was  himself  and  a  cheerful  enough  lad. 
There  had  also  been  the  spice  of  danger  from 
this  unknown,  thieving  trapper;  but  when  both 
had  vanished,  and  all  that  was  left  for  excitement 
was  the  monotony  of  indoor  life,  with  occasional 
half-days  when  fishing  through  the  ice  was  per- 
missible, his  spirits  fell  to  low  tide. 

Old  Cy  had  feared  this  from  the  outset,  but 
believing  that  the  experience  here  was  the  best 
possible  for  the  boy,  to  say  nothing  of  the  financial 
side,  he  had  brought  it  about.  And  now  he  had 
his  hands  full. 

But  he  was  equal  to  it.  Next  to  sport,  work, 
he  knew,  was  the  best  panacea  for  any  mental 
disorder,  and  work  a-plenty  he  now  found  for  Ray. 
First,  it  had  been  the  making  of  tip-ups  for  use 
on  the  lake,  then  snow-shoes  for  both  of  them, 
and  then  cutting  and  splitting  more  wood.  They 
had  an  ample  supply  already,  piled  high  in  a  lean- 
to  alongside  the  big  cabin,  but  Old  Cy  asserted 
that  it  was  not  enough,  and  so  more  was  added. 


CHIP  MCGUERE  205 

The  paths,  one  to  the  lake  to  obtain  water  and 
one  to  the  ice-house,  were  allotted  to  Ray  to  keep 
open. 

A  few  days  were  consumed  in  filling  the  ice- 
house once  more,  and  when  a  warm  day  came, 
Old  Cy  led  the  way  to  the  sheltered  side  of  the 
lake,  as  enthusiastic  as  a  boy,  to  begin  cutting 
lioles  and  setting  lines  for  fishing. 

This  especially  interested  Ray,  and  one  good  day 
with  a  fine  catch  of  trout  would  revive  his  spirits 
for  some  time. 

Each  and  every  evening,  also,  when  the  social 
side  came,  Old  Cy,  always  a  prolific  story-teller, 
would  engage  in  his  favorite  pastime  for  a  purpose. 

And  what  a  marvellous  fund  he  had  to  draw 
from!  All  the  years  when  he,  a  sailor  boy,  had 
sailed  afar,  all  the  strange  countries  and  people 
he  had  visited,  and  all  the  mishaps  he  had  met 
were  now  levied  upon. 

When  these  failed  —  and  it  was  not  soon  — 
his  wilderness  wanderings  before  he  settled  down 
at  Greenvale  furnished  tales,  and  when  facts 
became  scarce,  his  fancies  came  into  play,  and 
many  a  thrilling  shipwreck  and  hair-breadth 
escape  that  never  happened,  held  Ray's  attention 
for  a  long  evening. 


206  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

The  banjo  also  helped  out  for  many  an  hour. 
The  old  hermit  with  his  jews'-harp  joined  in, 
and  although  Ray's  fingers  were  prone  to  stray 
to  "solemn"  tunes,  Old  Cy  persisted  in  his  calls 
for  livelier  songs,  even  to  the  extent  of  adding  his 
voice;  and  so  the  first  few  weeks  of  winter  wore 
away. 

When  Christmas  neared,  however,  Ray  had  a 
"spell. "  It  had  been  a  calendar  day  in  his  memory, 
and  he  had  been  one  of  the  crowd  of  young  folks 
who  made  merry  in  the  usual  ways;  but  now  no 
cheer  was  possible,  he  believed,  and  once  more 
he  began  to  look  glum. 

It  may  seem  rank  foolishness  and  doubtless 
was,  yet  Ray,  like  all  humanity,  must  be  measured 
by  his  years  and  judged  by  his  surroundings. 

In  Greenvale  he  had  been  one  of  fifty  school- 
mates whose  lives  and  moods  were  akin,  and 
whose  enjoyments  must  be  much  the  same.  Here 
he  was,  in  a  way,  utterly  alone  so  far  as  age  means 
companionship,  and  worse  than  that,  one  of  his 
two  companions  was  morose  and  misanthropic. 
True,  he  twanged  his  jews'-harp  in  tune  with 
Ray's  plantation  melodies,  but  when  that  bond 
of  feeling  ceased,  he  lapsed  into  chill  silence  once 
more. 


CHIP  MCGUURE  207 

But  Old  Cy,  wise  philosopher  that  he  was,  saw 
and  felt  every  mood  and  tense  that  came  to  Ray, 
and,  seeing  thus,  forestalled  each  and  every  one. 

"Christmas  is  'most  here,"  he  said  to  Ray,  a 
few  days  before,  "an'  I've  been  figgerin'  we  three 
ought  to  celebrate  it  'cordin'  to  the  best  o'  our 
means.  We  can't  do  much  in  the  way  o'  gifts, 
but  we  kin  bust  ourselves  with  vittles  'n'  have 
some  fun,  just  the  same.  I've  kinder  mapped 
out  the  day  sorter  this  way,  if  it's  pleasant.  Fust, 
we'll  hev  an  arly  breakfast,  then  pack  a  lot  o' 
things  on  the  hand-sled,  go  'cross  the  lake  'n'  round 
to  the  cove  facin'  the  south.  Here  we'll  cut  a 
few  holes,  set  some  lines,  'n'  while  you're  tendin' 
'em,  Amzi  'n'  me '11  clear  a  spot  under  the  bank, 
build  a  bough  lean-to  facin'  the  sun,  spread  blank- 
ets in  it,  'n'  when  noon  comes,  cook  a  meal  fit 
fer  the  gods.  We  kin  hev  briled  venison,  fried 
trout  jist  out  o'  the  water,  boiled  taters,  hot  coffee, 
'n'  an  appetite  that'll  make  ye  lick  yer  fingers  'n' 
holler  fer  more.  If  only  the  sun  shines,  we  kin 
hev  a  heap  o'  fun." 

It  was  all  a  boyish  diversion  as  planned  by  Old 
Cy,  and  the  sole  object  was  to  tide  Ray  over  a  day 
that  might  add  to  his  homesickness.  The  weather 
favored  this  kindly  interest. 


208  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Christmas  morn  opened  warm,  and  but  for  the 
deep  snow  it  might  have  been  an  October  day. 
Old  Cy's  romantic  plan  also  materialized  to  the 
fullest,  and  when  his  green  bough  shed,  with  car- 
pet of  the  same,  was  completed,  the  fire  in  front 
blazing  cheerfully  and  dinner  cooking,  it  was  all 
a  picture  well  worth  a  study. 

Then  as  if  to  prove  that  good  luck  trots  in  double 
harness,  about  this  time  the  trout  began  to  bite, 
and  the  line  of  tip-ups  across  the  cove  were  flag- 
ging exciting  signals  that  kept  Ray  and  the  old 
hermit  on  the  jump.  Even  when  their  picturesque 
Christmas  dinner  was  spread  upon  an  improvised 
table  in  front  of  the  bough  shelter,  Ray  could 
hardly  leave  the  sport  to  eat,  and  Old  Cy  had  to 
interfere. 

"We  ain't  ketchin'  fish  to  sell,"  he  said  to  Ray, 
"but  jist  fer  fun.  You've  got  more'n  we  kin  eat 
in  two  weeks,  so  give  'em  a  rest." 

When  dinner  was  over  there  came  a  lazy  loung- 
ing hour  on  the  fir  boughs  in  the  warm  sun,  while 
Old  Cy  smoked  his  pipe  of  content. 

Ray,  however,  could  not  resist  the  signal  flags 
any  longer,  and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  eaten  he 
was  out  tending  them  again. 

When   the   sun   was   halfway   down,   again   the 


CHIP  MCGUTRE  2OQ 

happy  trio  broke  camp  and  returned  to  the  cabin, 
carrying  fish  enough  to  feed  a  multitude.  That 
evening  Old  Cy  told  stories  as  usual,  Ray  picked 
his  banjo  and  sang  lively  songs,  and  so  ended 
Christmas  in  the  wilderness. 

Our  lives  are  but  a  succession  of  moods,  vary- 
ing ever  as  our  surroundings  change;  and  so  it 
was  with  Ray,  isolated  as  he  was  with  two  old 
men  for  companions.  With  work  or  sport  to 
interest  him,  he  was  cheerful  and  content.  But 
when,  as  now  happened,  another  long  and  heavy 
snowfall  succeeded  that  mellow  Christmas  Day, 
he  grew  morose.  It  was  selfish,  perhaps,  and 
thoughtless,  as  youth  ever  is,  and  yet  not  surpris- 
ing ;  for  when  the  sun  shone  again,  they  were  prac- 
tically buried  under  snow.  It  took  an  entire  day, 
with  all  three  working,  to  shovel  paths  to  the  lake 
and  ice-house,  and  when  that  was  done  there  was 
naught  else  except  to  cook  and  keep  the  fire  going. 
A  few  days  of  this  bore  heavily  on  Ray's  spirits, 
and  he  became  so  glum  that  Old  Cy  took  him  to 
task. 

"You've  got  to  brace  up,  my  boy,"  he  said  one 
evening,  "an'  likewise  count  yer  blessin's.  We 
are  shut  up  fer  a  spell,  but  think  how  much  worse 
off  ye  might  be.  We've  got  plenty  to  eat  'n'  keep 


210  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

warm  with,  thar's  a  good  three  hundred  pounds 
o'  gum  we  got,  an'  it's  worth  over  four  hundred 
dollars,  say  nothin'  o'  the  furs,  'n'  all  yourn.  Then, 
'nother  thing,  ye  mustn't  keep  broodin'  over  yer 
own  lonesomeness  so  much.  I'll  'low  ye're  kind 
o'  anxious  to  see  the  little  gal  ag'in,  as  is  nat'ral; 
but  s'pose  it  was  two  years  ye  hed  to  look  forrard 
to,  a-waitin',  an'  then  on  top  o'  that,  arter  waitin' 
so  long,  ye  hed  to  face  three  more,  with  never  a 
chance  to  larn  whether  she  was  dead  or  alive!" 

And  now  Old  Cy  paused,  and  watched  the  low- 
burning  fire  as  if  living  once  more  in  bygone  days. 

"It  seems  a  long  time,  these  months,"  he  con- 
tinued at  last,  glancing  at  Ray,  "an'  so  'tis;  but  I 
had  a  longer  spell  on't  once,  an'  it  ended  the  way 
I  hope  your  waitin'  won't.  It  all  happened  more'n 
forty  years  ago,  'n'  I've  never  told  nobody  'bout 
it  since. 

"I  was  born  in  Bayport,  that's  a  seaport  town, 
an'  me  'n'  my  only  brother  took  to  the  sea  at  an 
arly  age.  We  had  sweethearts,  too,  and,  curislike, 
they  was  sisters.  Mine  was  Abbie  Grey  —  sweet 
Abbie  Grey  they  used  to  call  her,  an'  she  well 
desarved  it. 

"Wai,  I  used  to  see  her  'tween  viages,  mebbe 
a  week  or  two,  onct  in  six  or  twelve  months  o' 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  211 

waitin',  an'  them  was  spells  I've  lived  over  hun- 
dreds o'  times,  I  kin  tell  ye.  We  'greed  to  hitch 
up  finally  arter  I  made  one  more  viage,  'n'  I  went 
off,  feelin'  life  ahead  was  all  apple  orchards  'n' 
sunshine." 

He  paused,  looked  long  at  the  dying  embers 
once  more,  and  then  continued:  "Life  is  all  a  mix- 
up  o'  hopes  'n'  disapp'intments,  tho',  an'  the  brighter 
the  hopes  the  more  sartin  they  are  to  be  upset. 
I  started  on  that  viage  feelin'  heaven  was  waitin' 
fer  me  at  shore,  'n'  I  seemed  to  'a'  sailed  right  into 
the  other  place,  fer  our  ship  sprung  a  leak  'n' 
foundered.  We  took  to  the  boats,  ez  I  told  ye 
onct.  Most  o'  my  crew  died  afore  I  was  picked 
up,  'n'  then  the  whaler  that  took  me  aboard  was 
bound  on  a  four  years'  viage.  That  was  bad 
enough,  but  worse  was  possible,  fer  she  fetched 
up  on  a  coral  island  one  night  toward  the  last  on't, 
and  'twas  plumb  six  years  'fore  I  heard  from  home 
'n'  Abbie.  Things  had  happened  thar  in  that 
time,  too,  an'  I  was  told  my  brother  had  been 
given  up  ez  lost,  'n'  Abbie,  believin'  we  both  was 
dead,  had  married  'nother  man.  I  was  so  upsot 
I  never  let  her  know  I  was  alive,  'n'  she  don't  know 
it  to-day,  if  she's  still  livin',  which  I  hope  she  is." 

For  a  long  time  now  Old  Cy  remained  silent, 


212  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

his  head  bowed,  his  eyes  closed,  as  that  long-ago 
page  of  memories  returned,  while  Ray  watched 
him. 

"Life  is  a  curis  puzzle,"  he  added  at  last,  "an' 
we  all  live  in  to-morrers.  Fust  we  are  like  boys 
chasm'  Jack-lanterns,  rushin'  on  all  the  time, 
'spectin'  most  o'  the  trouble  is  past  'n'  the  future 
is  all  rosy.  We  don't  figger  much  on  to-day,  but 
callate  next  week,  next  month,  next  year,  is  goin' 
to  be  more  sunshiny,  till  we  get  old  'n'  gray  'n' 
grumpy,  'n'  nobody  wants  us  'round." 

Once  more  he  ceased  speaking,  and  once  more 
his  eyes  closed.  Five,  ten,  twenty  minutes  passed 
while  Ray  watched  Old  Age  in  repose  and  the 
fire  quite  died  away. 

"It's  gittin'  chilly,"  Old  Cy  said  at  last,  sud- 
denly rousing  himself  from  his  dream  of  the  long 
ago  and  sweet  Abbie  Grey,  "an'  we'd  best  turn 
in." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"The  biggest  fool  thing  —  an'  we  all  do  it  —  is  shakin' 
hands  with  trouble  'fore  ye  meet  it."  — OLD  CY  WALKER. 

FOR  two  months  life  at  Birch  Camp  much 
resembled  that  of  a  woodchuck  or  a  squirrel.  Now 
and  then  a  day  came  when  the  crusted  snow  per- 
mitted a  gum-gathering  trip  into  the  forest,  or  a 
few  midday  hours  at  ice-fishing;  and  never  were 
the  first  signs  of  spring  more  welcome  than  to 
those  winter-bound  prisoners.  The  wise  counsel 
and  patient  example  of  Old  Cy  had  not  been  lost 
upon  Ray,  either;  and  that  winter's  experience 
had  changed  him  to  an  almost  marvellous  degree. 
He  was  no  longer  a  moody  and  selfish  boy,  think- 
ing only  of  his  own  privations,  but  more  of  a  man, 
who  realized  that  he  had  duties  and  obligations 
toward  others,  as  well  as  himself. 

With  the  returning  sun  and  vanishing  snow, 
animal  life  was  once  more  astir,  and  a  short  season 
of  trapping  was  again  entered  upon,  and  mingled 
with  that  a  few  days  more  of  gum-gathering.  It 
was  brief  and  at  a  disadvantage,  for  ice  still  covered 
213 


214  THE  GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

the  lake,  and  until  that  disappeared  no  use  of  the 
canoes  could  be  made. 

Once  well  under  way,  however,  spring  returned 
with  speed,  the  brooks  began  to  overflow,  the  lake 
to  rise,  and  one  morning,  instead  of  a  white  expanse 
of  watery  ice,  it  was  a  blue  and  rippled  lake  once 
more. 

And  now  plans  for  Ray's  return  to  Greenvale  were 
in  order,  and  the  sole  topic  of  discussion.  He  was 
as  eager  as  a  boy  anxious  for  the  close  of  school, 
and  for  a  double  reason,  which  is  self-evident. 

It  was  agreed  that  Old  Cy  and  himself  should 
make  the  trip  out  together  in  two  canoes,  and 
convey  their  stores  of  gum  and  firs.  At  the  settle- 
ment these  were  to  be  packed,  to  await  later  sale 
and  shipment.  Old  Cy  would  then  return  to  camp, 
and  Ray  would  go  on  to  Greenvale. 

A  change  in  this  plan  came  in  an  unexpected 
manner,  however,  for  a  few  days  before  the  one 
set  for  departure,  Old  Cy,  always  on  watch,  saw 
a  canoe  enter  the  lake,  and  who  should  appear  but 
Levi,  Martin's  old  guide. 

"I've  been  cookin'  up  at  a  lumber  camp  on 
the  Moosehorn, "  he  explained,  after  greetings 
had  been  exchanged,  "an'  I  thought  I  would  make 
a  trip  up  here  an'  call  on  ye  'fore  I  went  out. " 


CHIP  MCGDIRE  215 

How  welcome  he  was,  and  how  all,  even  Amzi, 
of  those  winter-bound  prisoners  vied  with  each 
other  in  making  him  the  guest  of  honor,  need  not 
be  asserted.  He  had  been  a  part  of  their  life  here 
the  previous  summer,  with  all  its  joys  and  dangers, 
and  now  seemed  one  of  them. 

When  mutual  experiences  and  their  winter's 
history  had  been  exchanged,  of  course  Chip's 
rescue,  the  half-breed's  escape,  and  the  where- 
abouts of  her  father  came  up  for  discussion  that 
evening. 

"I've  heard  from  Tim's  Place  two  or  three 
times  this  winter,"  said  Levi,  "an'  neither  Pete 
nor  old  McGuire  has  been  seen  or  heard  on  since 
early  last  fall.  Pete  got  thar  all  safe,  but  vowed  re- 
venge on  McGuire,  as  Martin  and  I  found,  when 
we  went  out.  He  stayed  round  a  week  or  so,  I 
heard  later,  and  then  started  for  his  cabin  on  the 
Fox  Hole,  'n'  since  then  hain't  never  been  seen 
or  heard  of  by  nobody.  Tim  an'  Mike  went  over 
to  his  cabin  'long  in  the  winter,  but  no  signs  of  him 
was  found,  or  even  of  his  bein'  thar  since  snow 
came.  McGuire  also  seems  to  hev  dropped  out 
o'  business  and  ain't  been  heard  on  since  in  the 
summer.  We've  expected  him  all  winter  at  the 
lumber  camp,  but  he  didn't  show  up." 


2l6  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"We've  seen  him,"  put  in  Old  Cy,  flashing  a 
smile  at  Ray,  "leastwise  I  callated  'twas  him, 
though  I  never  let  on  to  that  effect.  He  was  trap- 
pin'  over  beyond  a  big  swamp  last  fall,  'n'  he  paid 
us  a  visit,  stole  a  half-dozen  o'  our  catches  'n'  left 
his  trade-mark  on  our  canoe."  And  then  Old 
Cy  told  the  story  of  their  adventure,  omitting, 
however,  any  reference  to  the  supposed  cave. 

"It's  curis  what  has  become  o'  him,"  Levi  said, 
when  the  tale  was  told,  "and  our  camp  crowd  all 
believe  that  thar's  been  foul  play,  with  Pete  at  the 
bottom  on't.  Nobody's  shed  any  tears,  though, 
an'  I'm  thinkin'  the  woods  is  well  rid  o'  him.  He's 
been  a  terror  to  everybody  long  enough." 

Much  more  of  this  backwoods  gossip  and  change 
of  experience  filled  in  the  evening,  and  next  morn- 
ing Old  Cy  gave  Ray  a  word  of  caution. 

"I  kept  whist  'bout  our  findin'  what  we  callated 
was  a  cave,"  he  said,  "an'  I  want  you  to.  This 
matter  o'  McGuire  and  the  half-breed  ain't  blowed 
over  yit,  an'  we  don't  want  to  git  mixed  up  in  it. 
Ez  fer  the  cave,  if  we  'lowed  we  found  one,  the 
folks  at  Tim's  Place  'ud  go  huntin'  fer  it,  sure,  'n' 
I've  my  reasons  for  not  wantin'  they  should  go. 
So  mum's  the  word  to  Levi  'bout  it." 

Levi's    arrival,    however,    changed    their    plans, 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  217 

for  he  at  once  offered  to  convoy  Ray  out  of  the 
woods,  thus  relieving  Old  Cy,  and  three  days 
later  these  two,  with  well-laden  canoes,  started  on 
the  out-going  journey. 

It  was  not  without  incident,  for  when  the  main 
stream  was  reached,  it  was  dotted  with  floating 
logs  and  the  red-shirted  drivers  with  the  bateaux 
and  spike  shoes  were  in  evidence.  A  monster 
jam  was  met  at  the  first  rapid,  the  bags  of  gum 
nuts,  bundles  of  firs,  and  canoes  had  to  be  carried 
around  it,  and  when  Tim's  Place  was  reached, 
a  score  of  the  good-natured  woodsmen  were  in 
possession. 

Levi  discreetly  avoided  all  questions  as  to  what 
Tim  knew  of  Chip,  her  father,  or  the  half-breed. 
Ray's  lips  were  also  sealed,  and  so  both  escaped 
much  questioning.  Here,  also,  they  learned  what 
both  had  guessed  —  that  McGuire  and  Pete  had 
either  left  the  wilderness  or  had  perished  that 
winter.  Where  and  how,  if  such  was  the  case, 
no  one  seemed  to  know  or  care,  and  a  close  observer 
would  have  said  that  every  one  at  Tim's  Place 
hoped  that  these  two  outlaws  had  met  their  fate. 

Old  Tomah  was  also  found  at  Tim's  Place,  and 
he  was  undeniably  glad  to  see  both  Ray  and  Levi, 
and  to  learn  that  Chip  was  likely  to  be  well  cared  for. 


2l8  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

When  these  two  voyagers  were  ready  to  start, 
he  joined  and  kept  with  them  until  the  settlement 
was  reached.  Knowing  full  well  the  value  of  gum 
and  furs,  he  soon  found  a  purchaser  for  Ray's 
store  and  stock  at  its  full  value;  and  when  that 
youth,  now  elated  as  never  before,  was  ready  to  start 
for  Greenvale,  this  fine  old  Indian  showed  almost 
a  white  man's  emotion. 

"Take  this  to  little  girl,"  he  said,  handing  Ray 
a  package,  "and  tell  her  Old  Tomah  not  forget. 
He  hope  she  come  back  to  see  him  soon." 

"Tell  Mr.  Frisbie  I  shall  be  here,  waitin'  to  meet 
him,  when  he  sends  word,"  Levi  said;  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  both  of  his  good  friends,  Ray  now 
bade  them  good-by  with  many  thanks  for  all 
they  had  done. 

Of  his  homeward  trip  and  all  the  charming 
anticipations  now  his,  no  mention  need  be  made. 
They  are  but  the  flowers  wisely  strewn  in  the  path- 
way of  youth,  and  Ray  —  now  more  a  man  than 
when  he  entered  the  woods  —  full  well  deserved 
all  that  lay  before  him. 

But  Old  Tomah's  heart  was  sad,  and  far  away 
beside  a  rippled  lake  was  another  who  felt  the 
same. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

"When  ye  see  two  hearts  tryin1  to  beat  ez  one,  gin  'em  the 
chance."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

CHIP'S  success  and  popularity  in  Greenvale 
was  practically  nullified  by  Hannah,  who  from 
wounded  vanity  and  petty  jealousy  became  her 
enemy  from  the  outset. 

Aunt  Comfort  did  not  know  it.  Angie  was  not 
conscious  of  the  facts,  or,  busy  with  her  own 
social  duties  and  home-making,  gave  them  no 
thought.  And  yet,  inspired  by  Hannah's  mali- 
cious tongue,  Greenvale  looked  upon  poor  Chip 
as  one  it  was  best  to  avoid. 

With  Angie  as  sponsor,  she  had  been  made  one 
of  the  Christmas  church  decorators,  and  had  been 
twice  invited  to  parties,  only  to  exasperate  Hannah 
all  the  more  and  cause  an  increase  of  sneers. 

"She's  nobody  an'  an  upstart,"  Hannah  said 
at  the  first  meeting  of  the  village  sewing  circle 
after  Chip's  advent,  "an'  I've  my  doubts  about 
her  father  an'  mother  ever  bein'  married.  Then 
she's  an  infiddle  an'  believes  in  Injun  sperrits  an' 

219 


22O  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

hobgoblin  things  she  calls  spites,  an'  is  a  reg'lar 
heathen.  I  don't  trust  her  a  minit,  an'  never 
leave  the  house  'thout  I  lock  up  my  things." 

Much  more  of  this  sort  fell  from  Hannah's  lips 
whenever  occasion  offered,  though  never  within 
hearing  of  Aunt  Comfort  or  Angie.  Neither  did 
the  townspeople  enlighten  them,  and  so  the  under- 
current of  innuendo  and  gossip,  once  started  by 
Hannah,  spread  until  all  Greenvale  looked  askance 
at  Chip. 

There  was  also  some  color  for  this  ill  repute, 
for  Angie  had  concealed  nothing,  and  Chip,  fool- 
ishly perhaps,  had  asserted  her  belief  when  it 
would  have  been  better  to  conceal  it. 

The  parson  also,  chagrined  at  his  failure  to  make 
a  convert  of  the  girl,  referred  to  her  as  "  rebellious,  ob- 
stinate in  her  ideas,  and  one  who  needed  chastening." 

Her  teacher,  however,  was  her  stanch  friend. 
Aunt  Comfort  beamed  upon  her  morning  and 
night,  while  Angie,  having  provided  her  with 
home,  raiment,  opportunity  for  schooling,  escort 
to  church,  and  much  good  advice,  felt  that  she 
had  fulfilled  her  duty.  And  in  a  way,  she  had. 

But  social  recognition  in  a  country  village  can 
be  made  or  marred  by  such  a  person  as  Hannah, 
and  quite  unknown  to  those  most  interested, 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  221 

Chip's  popularity  was  not  decreed.  Neither  was 
she  conscious  of  this  undercurrent.  Each  day 
she  went  to  and  returned  from  school  in  a  sturdy 
sort  of  way.  A  most  devoted  pupil,  she  never 
failed  to  thank  her  teacher  for  every  word  of  help, 
and  if  —  thanks  to  Hannah  —  she  failed  to  make 
friends  about  the  village,  she  won  a  place  near  to 
Aunt  Comfort's  heart. 

But  somehow  Aunt  Comfort,  who  loved  every- 
body alike,  good  or  bad,  or  at  least  spoke  no  ill 
of  the  bad  ones,  didn't  count.  That  she  must 
inevitably  take  Chip  under  her  motherly  wing, 
all  recognized.  She  had  taken  Hannah,  then  Angie 
and  Nezer,  and  now  this  waif  who,  as  Hannah 
insisted,  was  all  bad ;  and  according  to  Greenvale's 
belief,  Aunt  Comfort  would  keep  on  "taking  in" 
homeless  waifs  and  outcast  mortals  as  long  as  she 
lived,  or  house  room  held  out.  And  it  was  true. 

By  midwinter  Martin's  new  house  was  all  fur- 
nished, and  social  obligations  began  to  interest 
Angie,  which  made  matters  all  the  worse  for  Chip, 
for  now  Hannah  could  persecute  her  with  less 
danger  of  exposure. 

But  Chip  was  hard  to  persecute.  She  had 
known  adversity  in  its  worst  form.  Her  life  at 
Tim's  Place  had  been  practical  slavery,  and  the 


222  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

worst  that  Hannah  could  do  was  as  pin  pricks 
compared  to  it. 

It  is  certain,  also,  if  Chip  had  "spunked  up," 
as  Hannah  would  call  it,  now  and  then,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  her;  but  it  wasn't  Chip's 
way.  To  work  and  suffer  in  silence  had  been  her 
lot  at  Tim's  Place.  Angie  had  said,  "You  must 
obey  everybody  and  make  friends,"  and  impelled 
by  experience,  and  this  somewhat  broad  order, 
Chip  was  doing  her  best. 

One  hope  cheered  her  all  that  long,  hard  winter  of 
monotonous  study  —  the  return  of  Ray,  and  possibly 
Old  Cy,  when  summer  came.  Somehow  these  two 
had  knit  themselves  into  her  life  as  no  one  else  had 
or  could.  Then  she  wondered  how  Ray  would  seem 
to  and  feel  toward  her  when  he  came,  and  if  the 
little  bond  —  a  wondrous  strong  one,  as  far  as  her 
feelings  went  —  would  still  call  him  to  her  side. 

Of  love  and  its  real  meaning  she  was  scarce 
conscious  as  yet.  She  simply  felt  that  this  youth 
with  his  sunny  face  and  brown  eyes  was  the  one 
being  on  earth  she  wished  to  please.  All  the  ro- 
mance and  pathos  of  that  summer  idyl,  all  the  moon- 
light and  canoeing,  all  the  songs  he  had  charmed 
her  with,  and  every  word  and  act  of  his  from  that 
first  evening  when,  ragged  and  starving,  she  had 


CHIP  MOGUIRE  223 

stumbled  into  the  camp,  until  she  had  parted 
from  him  with  misty  eyes,  had  been  lived  over  by 
her  countless  times. 

It  had  all  been  a  beacon  of  hope  to  her  in  the 
uphill  road  toward  the  temple  of  learning ;  and 
how  hard  she  had  studied,  and  how  patiently  she 
had  tried  to  correct  her  own  speech,  not  even  her 
teacher  guessed. 

Few  of  us  can  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us, 
and  yet  Chip,  mature  of  mind  as  one  just  entering 
womanhood,  realized  somewhat  her  own  condi- 
tion. Perhaps,  also,  she  was  conscious  in  some 
degree  as  to  why  she  was  not  more  popular,  but 
that  was  a  matter  of  scant  interest  to  her.  All 
she  wished  and  all  she  strove  for  was  to  learn  what 
others  knew,  speak  as  others  spoke,  and  act  as 
they  acted ;  and  all  for  one  end  and  purpose  — 
to  win  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Ray. 

And  so  no  one,  not  even  Hannah,  whose  prying 
eyes  saw  all  things,  guessed  her  secret. 

A  little  of  gall  and  bitterness  was  now  and  then 
meted  out  to  Hannah  in  return  for  all  her  sneers, 
for  Chip's  teacher  occasionally  spent  an  evening 
at  Aunt  Comfort's,  and  every  word  of  praise  she 
let  fall  for  her  pupil  was  a  thorn  to  Hannah.  But 
she  revenged  herself,  as  might  be  expected. 


224  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"I  think  that  Injun  gal's  a  witch,"  she  said 
once  to  her  bosom  friend  after  one  of  these  unpleas- 
ant evenings,  "the  way  she  pulls  wool  over  Miss 
Phinney's  eyes  by  pretending  she's  so  anxious  to 
learn.  You'd  think  to  hear  her  go  on  that  learnin' 
was  all  she  was  livin'  for,  and  her  teacher  almost 
an  angel.  I  think  Angie  must  'a'  ben  spell-bound 
the  same  way  when  she  fetched  her  here  to  crowd 
out  her  betters." 

But  Chip,  fortunately,  was  still  unconscious  of 
the  extent  and  injury  of  Hannah's  malice. 

With  the  coming  of  springtime  and  green  grass, 
life  for  Chip  assumed  a  more  smiling  face,  for  now 
she  could  fly  to  the  hillsides,  and  for  the  time  being 
imagine  herself  at  the  lake  once  more.  Some- 
how Greenvale  as  a  whole  had  impressed  her  as 
cold  and  unloving,  and  to  escape  it  was  a  relief. 
Her  teacher  was  dear  to  her,  Aunt  Comfort  a 
kindly  mother,  Angie  a  good  friend ;  but  none 
were  kin  to  her  and  never  could  be,  as  she  more 
and  more  realized. 

Then,  too,  poor  Chip,  in  spite  of  Tim's  Place,  was 
growing  homesick  for  the  wilderness  again;  or,  to 
be  more  accurate,  for  the  little  lake  where  her  heart 
had  been  touched  by  the  wand  of  love. 

With  some  insight  into  books  and  a  developing 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  225 

mind  came  a  keener  sensitiveness,  and  what  people 
thought  of  her  and  how  they  felt  toward  her  became 
of  more  consequence.  Her  life  was  simple.  She 
rose  early,  assisted  as  a  housemaid  in  Aunt  Com- 
fort's home,  departed  at  a  set  time  for  school  with  its 
six  hours  of  almost  unbroken  study,  and,  most  prized 
of  all,  a  few  moments'  companionship  with  her 
teacher.  To  her  Chip  had  confided  all  her  joys 
and  sorrows  and  most  of  her  history  as  well.  And 
be  it  said  to  Miss  Phinney's  credit,  she  had  discretion 
and  honor  enough  not  to  betray  Chip's  confidence. 

It  is  also  possible,  in  fact  almost  certain,  that 
that  unfortunate  waif's  somewhat  pitiful  tale  had 
won  her  teacher's  interest  and  affection  as  naught 
else  could.  Only  one  reservation  was  made  by 
Chip  —  her  own  feelings  toward  Ray.  All  else  be- 
came an  open  book  to  Miss  Phinney. 

When  school  was  out,  the  two  walked  homeward 
together  as  far  as  their  ways  permitted,  and  then 
Chip  obtained  the  one  hour  of  the  day  which  she 
felt  was  quite  her  own.  At  first,  during  the  autumn 
days,  she  had  used  it  for  a  scamper  through  the  nut- 
brown  woods.  When  winter  came  and  it  was  not 
too  cold,  she  occasionally  visited  the  mill  pond  above 
the  village,  where,  if  the  conditions  were  right,  all 
the  skating  and  sliding  youth  were  gathered;  and 


226  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

when  blessed  spring  returned,  it  was  away  to  the 
hills  and  fields  once  more. 

On  Saturdays  she  seldom  left  the  house,  unless 
sent  on  an  errand,  and  Sunday  became  a  day  of 
penance. 

"I  don't  know  why  folks  watch  me  so  much  when 
Igo  to  meetin',''  Chip  complained  once  to  her  teacher, 
"but  they  do,  and  I  don't  like  it.  I  can  see  now 
why  they  did  when  I  first  came.  I  guess  they 
thought  I  was  an  Injun,  maybe;  but  what  do  I  do 
now  to  make  'em  so  curious?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  mind  them,"  Miss  Phinney 
answered  soothingly,  "no  one  intends  to  annoy  you; 
but  it  takes  a  long  time  for  people  here  to  become 
accustomed  to  a  stranger." 

Miss  Phinney  dared  not  tell  her  pupil  that  her 
somewhat  wild  belief  and  unquestionably  rude 
origin  and  early  life  formed  the  basis  of  this  curi- 
osity. 

And  now,  when  the  flowers  and  birds  had  once 
more  returned  to  Greenvale,  and  Ray  might  return 
any  day,  a  little  plan  that  Chip  had  had  in  mind 
for  many  weeks  took  shape.  She  knew  Ray  must 
come  on  the  stage,  and  eager  for  a  sight  of  his  face 
as  only  love  can  make  one,  she  meant  to  be  the  first 
to  meet  and  greet  him. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  227 

A  mile  down  the  village  street  and  beyond  the 
last  house  was  a  sharp  hilltop.  The  stage  usually 
reached  here  about  an  hour  after  the  close  of  school, 
and  to  this  vantage  point,  where  she  could  hide 
behind  a  stone  wall,  Chip  now  betook  herself  each 
day. 

Her  plans  for  meeting  her  young  hero  were  well 
considered.  She  was  sure  he  would,  like  herself, 
prefer  a  seat  with  Uncle  Joe.  That  important 
person,  whose  heart  she  had  won  by  her  admiration 
of  his  horses  on  her  arrival,  would  surely  invite  her 
to  ride  into  the  village,  if  he  saw  her.  If  he  was 
alone,  she  would  remain  hid ;  but  if  some  one  was  with 
him,  she  would  then  disclose  herself  and  the  coveted 
invitation  and  meeting  with  Ray  would  follow. 

It  was  a  vague,  uncertain  plan.  No  one  in  Green- 
vale  had  the  remotest  idea  when  Ray  would  return. 
Chip  only  knew  that  he  was  expected  in  the  spring. 
The  day,  or  even  week,  was  a  long-range  guess. 
But  even  that  slim  chance  poor,  lonesome,  heart- 
longing  Chip  would  not  miss,  and  so  each  day  at 
close  of  school  she  hurried  to  her  lookout  point  to 
watch  and  wait. 

It  was  a  silly,  almost  hopeless  sentinelship,  as  she 
knew  well  enough;  but  with  the  dog's  heart  that 
was  hers,  she  would  keep  her  vigil,  and  like  one  of 


228  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

those  dumb  brutes,  wait  weeks,  months,  ay,  years 
even,  for  a  master  coming. 

It  was  mid- April  when  Chip  began  her  daily  watch, 
and  missed  no  day  unless  a  pelting  rain  prevented. 
It  was  June  ere  she  won  her  reward,  and  then  one 
balmy  afternoon  when  she  saw  the  stage  afar,  there, 
perched  beside  Uncle  Joe,  was  —  a  companion ! 

How  sure  that  weary,  waiting  waif  was  that  her 
heart  was  not  mistaken !  How  her  pulses  leaped 
and  thrilled  as  the  slow- moving  stage  crept  up  the 
hill;  and  how  Ray,  eager  to  catch  the  first  glimpse 
of  his  native  village,  saw  a  winsome,  smiling  face 
shaded  by  a  flower- decked  hat,  peeping  at  him  over 
a  wall,  was  but  a  minor  episode  in  the  lives  of  these 
two ;  yet  one  to  be  recalled  many,  many  times  after- 
ward and  always  with  a  heartache. 

None  came  to  them  now,  for  on  the  instant  Ray 
saw  who  was  waiting  for  him  he  halted  the  stage, 
and  the  next  moment  he  was  beside  his  sweetheart. 
And  Uncle  Joe,  with  the  wisdom  and  sympathy  of 
old  age,  discreetly  averted  his  face,  and  said  "Go- 
lang  "  to  his  horses,  and  drove  on  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"  There  ain't  but  few  folks  smell  woollen  quite  quick  enough." 

—  OLD  Cv  WALKER. 

DURING  all  the  long  weeks  while  Chip  had  awaited 
her  lover's  coming,  one  hope  had  been  hers  —  that 
his  return  would  end  all  her  loneliness  and  begin 
a  season  of  the  happy,  care-free  days  like  those  by 
the  lake  once  more. 

And  there  were  many  reasons  for  it. 

In  this  quiet,  strictly  religious,  gossip-loving  vil- 
lage, a  dependant  upon  charity,  as  it  were,  and  with 
Hannah's  sneers,  Chip  had  slowly  but  surely  learned 
how  little  akin  she  was  to  them  all,  and  how  distrust- 
ful they  all  were  of  her.  This  knowledge  had  come 
by  degrees:  first,  from  the  way  in  which  the  older 
pupils  at  school  regarded  her,  having  always  kept 
aloof;  then  the  insistent  staring  she  received  each 
Sunday  at  church;  the  somewhat  chilly  reception 
she  had  met  in  a  social  way;  and  lastly,  a  seeming 
indifference  on  Angle's  part.  There  was  no  reason 
for  it  all,  so  far  as  Chip  could  understand.  She 
walked  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path  laid  out  for 
229 


230  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

her  each  day,  made  herself  useful  between  school 
hours  at  Aunt  Comfort's,  studied  hard,  thanked 
Angle  for  every  trifle,  and  after  her  first  unfortunate 
experience  in  defending  her  belief  in  spites  and  Old 
Tomah's  hobgoblins,  she  had  never  referred  to  them 
again.  But  the  seeming  fact  that  she  was  disliked 
and  unwelcome  here  had  slowly  forced  itself  upon 
her  and  added  to  her  loneliness. 

It  was  all  to  end,  however,  when  Ray  came.  In 
him  or  from  him  she  would  find  a  welcome.  He 
knew  her  as  she  was,  and  what  she  was.  He  had 
not  been  distrustful,  but  tender  and  loving,  and  all 
clouds  and  sorrow  and  all  humiliations  would  fade 
away  when  he  came. 

She  had  pictured  to  herself,  also,  how  much  they 
would  be  together  and  where;  how  he  would  come 
to  Aunt  Comfort's  the  first  evening  and  tell  all  about 
his  winter  in  the  wilderness  and  Old  Cy,  —  all  about 
the  trap-setting,  gum-gathering,  and  the  deep  snows 
she  knew  so  much  about.  Maybe  he  would  bring 
his  banjo  now  and  then  and  play  and  sing  the  darky 
songs  she  had  hummed  so  many  times.  Possibly 
he  might  come  and  meet  her  occasionally  on  the 
way  home  from  school;  and  when  vacation  came, 
how  many  long  rambles  they  would  take  in  the  dear 
old  woods,  with  no  such  ogre  as  the  half-breed  to 


CHIP  MCGUTRE  231 

spoil  them.  It  had  all  been  a  rosy-hued  dream 
with  her,  while  she  waited  his  coming.  And  now 
he  was  here ! 

For  the  first  few  moments  after  he  kissed  her  up- 
raised lips,  she  could  not  speak  for  very  joy;  and 
then,  as  hand  in  hand  they  started  toward  the  village, 
her  speech  came. 

"I've  been  so  lonesome,"  she  said  simply,  "I've 
counted  the  days,  and  come  down  here  to  meet  you 
daily,  for  over  a  month.  I  don't  like  it  here,  and 
nobody  likes  me,  I  guess.  I'm  so  glad  you've  come, 
though.  Now  I  shan't  be  lonesome  no  more.  I've 
studied  hard,  too,"  she  added,  with  an  accent  of 
pride.  "I  can  read  and  spell  words  of  six  sylla- 
bles. I've  ciphered  up  to  decimal  fractions,  an' 
begun  grammar." 

"I'm.  glad  to  get  home,  too,"  answered  Ray,  as 
simply.  "It  waS  lonesome  in  the  woods  all  winter, 
when  we  couldn't  tend  the  traps.  But  I've  made 
a  lot  of  money  —  'most  five  hundred  dollars  —  all 
mine,  too.  How  is  everybody?"  And  so  they 
dropped  from  sentiment  into  commonplace. 

At  the  tavern  he  secured  his  belongings.  At  the 
corner  where  their  ways  parted,  he  bade  Chip  a  light 
good-by,  and  with  an  "I'll  see  you  soon,"  left  her. 

Her  hero  had  arrived.    They  had  met,  kissed  as 


232  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

lovers  should,  and  the  lonely  waiting  and  watching 
days  were  at  an  end  and  a  new  life  was  to  begin  for 
Chip. 

Little  did  she  realize  what  it  would  mean  for  her, 
or  how  utterly  her  hopes  were  to  fail. 

"He  will  come  to-night,"  her  heart  assured  her, 
and  that  evening,  without  a  word  to  Aunt  Comfort 
or  Hannah  as  to  whom  she  expected,  she  arrayed 
herself  in  her  one  best  dress  and  awaited  his  ex- 
pected visit. 

And  what  a  propitious  and  all- favoring  evening 
it  was!  The  June  night  was  balmy.  Blooming 
lilacs  and  syringas  half  hid,  as  well  as  adorned,  the 
porch  of  Aunt  Comfort's  home.  Aunt  Comfort  had 
just  departed  to  make  a  call,  Hannah  was  away  at 
prayer  meeting,  and  "no  one  nigh  to  hinder." 

But  Chip  waited  in  vain ! 

The  drowsy  hum  of  the  Mizzy  Falls,  up  the  village 
street,  came  to  her ;  the  fireflies  twinkled  amid 
the  dense -growing  maples  and  over  the  broad 
meadows;  whippoorwills  called  across  the  valley; 
but  no  lover  came  to  Chip.  One,  two,  almost 
three  hours  she  waited  and  watched.  Then  came 
Aunt  Comfort  and  Hannah,  and  heavy-hearted  and 
lonesome  once  more,  poor  Chip  retired. 

At  school  next  day  her  mind  and  heart  were  at 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  233 

x 

war.  The  parts  of  speech  and  rules  of  subtrac- 
tion and  division  seemed  complete  chaos,  and  when 
homeward  bound,  she  loitered  slowly  along,  hoping 
Ray  would  make  amends  and  meet  her  on  the  way. 
But  again  he  failed  to  appear. 

And  that  night,  when  alone  with  Hannah,  a  worse 
blow  came. 

"I  heerd  young  Stetson  got  back  yesterday,"  she 
said,  fixing  her  steely  blue  eyes  on  Chip,  "an'  you 
went  down  the  road  to  meet  him.  I  should  think 
you'd  be  'shamed  o'  yourself.  If  you're  callatin'  on 
settin'  your  cap  for  him,  'twon't  do  a  mite  o'  good. 
His  aunt  wouldn't  think  o'  havin'  sich  an  outcast  ez 
you  for  him  —  that  I  can  tell  ye." 

But  not  a  word  of  reply  came  from  poor  Chip. 
Such  speeches  were  not  new  to  her,  and  she  had  long 
before  ceased  to  answer  them.  But  this  one,  from 
its  very  truth,  hurt  more  than  all  others  had,  and, 
crushed  by  it,  she  stole  away  out  of  the  house. 

No  thought  that  Ray  might  call  came  to  her.  She 
only  wished  to  escape  somewhere,  that  she  might 
cry  away  her  misery  and  shame  in  solitude. 

The  evening  was  but  a  repetition  of  the  previous 
one.  The  same  sweet  influence  and  silvered  light 
was  all  about,  but  no  heed  of  its  beauty  came  to 
Chip.  Instead,  she  felt  herself  a  shameful  thing 


234  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

of  no  account.  Her  lover  had  failed  her  —  now  she 
knew  why,  and  as  she  sped  along  the  lonely  way  to 
the  schoolhouse,  scarce  conscious  of  her  steps,  all 
hope  and  all  joy  left  her.  Why  or  for  what  purpose 
she  was  hurrying  toward  this  deserted  little  building, 
she  knew  not.  Hot  tears  filled  her  eyes.  Shame 
surged  in  her  heart.  She  was  a  nobody  in  the  eyes  of 
all  her  world,  and  once  she  had  reached  the  worn 
sill,  so  often  crossed  by  her,  she  threw  herself  upon 
it  and  sobbed  in  utter  despair. 

For  a  long  hour  she  sat  there  while  the  tide  of 
feeling  ebbed  and  tears  came  unchecked,  and  then 
the  reaction  came.  With  it,  also,  came  something 
of  the  old  courage  and  defiance  that  had  once  led 
her  to  face  night,  danger,  and  sixty  miles  of  wilder- 
ness alone. 

"I  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  said,  sitting  up, 
"and  Hannah  was  right.  I  am  a  nobody  here,  and 
Ray  has  been  told  so  and  has  kept  away." 

And  now  with  returning  calm,  and  soothed, 
maybe,  by  the  still,  ethereal  night,  she  saw  herself, 
her  past  and  present,  as  it  all  was.  Back  in  an 
instant  she  sped  in  thought  to  the  moment  when, 
kneeling  to  these  people,  she  begged  for  food ;  back 
to  that  first  prayer  she  ever  heard  in  the  tent,  and 
the  offer  of  rescue  that  followed. 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  235 

And  then  her  life  here,  with  all  its  hopes  and 
humiliation,  rose  before  her. 

"It  was  all  wrong,  my  coming  here,"  she  said, 
looking  away  to  the  village  where  lights  twinkled; 
"I  am  not  their  sort,  nor  they  mine.  I'd  better  go 
away." 

Then,  lifted  a  wee  bit  by  this  new  resolve,  she 
rose  and  returned  to  the  house. 

The  tall  clock  in  the  sitting  room  was  just  chiming 
ten  when  she  entered,  and  Aunt  Comfort  was  there 
alone. 

"Raymond  was  here  this  evening,"  she  said 
kindly,  "and  waited  quite  a  spell.  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"Oh,  nowhere,"  answered  Chip,  pleasantly,  "only 
I  was  lonesome  and  went  out  for  a  walk." 

Little  did  good  Aunt  Comfort  realize  what  a  vol- 
cano of  hope,  despair,  shame,  and  tender  love  was 
concealed  beneath  that  calm  answer,  or  the  new 
resolve  budding  in  Chip's  heart. 

No  more  did  Ray  suspect  it  when  he  met  her 
coming  home  from  school  the  next  afternoon. 

For  during  those  two  wretched  hours  when  she 
was  alone  on  the  worn  schoolhouse  step,  poor  Chip 
McGuire,  the  low-born,  pitiful  waif,  had  become  a 
woman  and  put  away  girlish  impulses. 


236  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"I  couldn't  come  to  see  you  that  first  evening," 
he  said  at  once,  "for  uncle  and  aunty  kept  me  talk- 
ing till  bedtime.  Where  were  you  last  night?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  much  think  you  would  come,"  an- 
swered Chip,  calmly,  smiling  at  him  in  a  far-off  way. 
"I  am  a  nobody  here,  as  you  will  soon  find  out,  and 
I  don't  expect  —  anything.  I  got  lonesome  last 
night  and  went  off  for  a  walk." 

Ray  looked  at  her  in  wide-eyed  astonishment. 
And  well  he  might,  for  only  two  short  days  since  she 
had  met  him,  an  eager,  simple  girl,  and  now  she 
spoke  like  a  woman.  No  word,  no  hint  of  his 
neglect,  escaped  her;  but  a  cool  indifference  was 
apparent. 

"Tell  me  about  the  woods  and  Old  Cy,"  she  said, 
not  waiting  for  him  to  speak  again,  "and  how  is  the 
hermit?  I  want  to  know  all  about  them." 

"Oh,  I  left  'em  all  right,"  answered  Ray,  sullenly, 
for  like  a  boy  he  wanted  to  be  coaxed.  And  then, 
urged  a  little  by  Chip,  he  told  his  winter's  experience. 

One  episode  interested  her  most  of  all  —  the 
strange  trapper's  doings,  his  theft  of  their  game, 
their  pursuit  of  him  and  discovery  of  his  hiding  spot. 

"I  know  who  that  was,"  she  said,  when  it  was  all 
described.  "It  was  my  father,  and  if  he  had  caught 
you  spying  upon  him,  I  guess  he'd  shot  you  both. 


CHIP  MCGDTRE  237 

He  always  used  to  go  somewhere  trapping  every 
fall;  but  nobody  could  ever  find  where." 

This  return  to  the  memories  of  the  wilderness 
wore  away  something  of  Chip's  cool  reserve,  and 
when  the  house  was  reached  her  eyes  had  grown 
tender. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  often  —  as  —  as  your 
folks  will  let  you  come,"  she  said,  somewhat  timidly 
when  they  parted;  and  scarce  understanding  this 
speech,  Ray  left  her. 

"  Chip  has  changed  a  whole  lot,"  he  said  to  his  aunt 
a  little  later,  "and  I  wish  she  hadn't;  she  don't  seem 
the  same  any  more." 

"I'm  glad  of  it  if  she  has,"  answered  Angie,  smil- 
ing at  him.  "There  was  need  enough  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

OLD  CY  had  builded  wiser  than  he  realized  when 
he  coaxed  Ray  to  spend  a  winter  in  the  woods. 

The  long  tramps  through  the  vast  wilderness ;  the 
keen  hunt  for  signs  of  mink,  fisher,  otter,  and  wild- 
cat, with  constant  guard  against  danger;  the  unre- 
mitting though  zestful  labor  of  gum-gathering;  the 
far-sighted  need  for  winter  preparation;  and  last 
but  not  least  Old  Cy's  cheerful  philosophy,  had 
broadened  the  lad  and  developed  both  muscle  and 
mind. 

His  success,  too,  had  encouraged  him.  He  was 
eager  to  try  another  season  there,  aad  planned  for 
hiring  men  to  gather  gum,  and  saw  in  this  vocation 
possible  future. 

But  the  change  in  Chip  puzzled  him.  He  had 
returned,  expecting  to  find  her  the  same  timid,  yet 
courageous  little  girl,  ready  to  be  his  companion 
at  all  times  and  to  kiss  him  when  he  chose  —  a 
somewhat  better-educated  girl,  of  course,  using  more 
refined  language,  but  otherwise  the  same  confiding 
child,  as  it  were. 

238 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  239^ 

She  was  all  this  the  day  of  his  return ;  and  then, 
presto!  like  a  sudden  blast  of  cold  air  came  a, 
change.  Too  loyal  to  her  to  question  any  one,  he 
could  only  wonder  why  this  change. 

He  called  again  soon  after  that  first,  unsatisfying 
walk  home  with  her,  to  find  her  the  same  cool,  col- 
lected young  lady.  She  was  nice  to  him,  induced 
him  to  talk  of  the  woods  once  more  and  his  own 
plans ;  but  it  was  not  the  Chip  of  old  who  listened, 
but  quite  another  person. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  the  lake  with  uncle  and  aunt," 
he  said  at  last,  "and  I  mean  to  coax  them  to  take 
you  along.  You  have  been  shut  up  in  school  sa 
long,  it  will  do  you  good." 

"Please  don't  say  a  word  to  them  about  it,"  she 
urged,  in  hurt  tone,  "for  it  will  do  no  good.  I 
wouldn't  go,  anyway." 

"Not  go  to  the  woods  if  you  could,"  he  exclaimed 
in  astonishment;  "why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  Just  what  I  say,"  she  returned  firmly,  and  then 
added  wistfully,  "I'd  fly  there,  if  I  had  wings.  I'd 
give  my  life,  almost,  for  one  more  summer  like  the 
last.  But  I  shall  not  go  again  now,  and  maybe 
never." 

It  was  unaccountable  and  quite  beyond  Ray's 
ken  —  this  strange  decision  of  hers  —  and  her 


240  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"Please  don't  say  any  more  about  it"  closed  the 
subject. 

Another  and  even  greater  shock  came  to  Ray  when 
late  that  evening,  on  the  porch,  he  essayed  to  kiss  her. 

"No,  no;  please  don't,"  she  said  with  almost  a 
sob,  pushing  him  away.  "It's  silly  now,  and  — 
and  —  you  mustn't." 

A  week  later  school  closed,  and  Chip's  conduct 
was  then  also  a  puzzle  to  Miss  Phinney.  As  usual 
on  these  occasions,  when  the  hour  came,  each  pupil, 
young  and  old,  filed  past  the  teacher  at  her  desk, 
the  boys  to  shake  hands,  the  girls  to  be  kissed,  and 
all  bade  good-by,  after  which  they  trooped  away, 
glad  to  escape. 

This  ceremony  now  toojs  place  as  usual.  All 
•departed  except  Chip,  and  she  remained  at  her 
desk.  Some  intuition  of  pity  or  sympathy  drew 
Miss  Phinney  to  her  at  once ;  and  then,  at  the  first 
word  from  her,  Chip  gave  way  to  tears  —  not  light 
ones,  but  sobs  that  shook  her  as  a  great  grief. 
Vainly  Miss  Phinney  tried  to  cheer  and  console  her, 
stroking  the  bowed  head  until  her  own  eyes  grew 
misty. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  give  way,"  Chip  said  at  last, 
looking  up  and  brushing  away  the  tears,  "but  you've 
been  so  good  and  patient  with  me,  I  couldn't  help 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  241 

it.  I  hain't  many  friends  here,  I  guess,  and — " 
choking  back  another  sob  —  "I  shall  be  more 
lonesome'n  ever." 

It  was  true  enough,  as  Miss  Phinney  well  under- 
stood, and  somehow  her  heart  went  out  to  this  un- 
fortunate girl  now,  as  never  before. 

"You  mustn't  think  about  that,"  she  said  at  last, 
in  her  most  soothing  voice,  "but  come  and  see  me 
as  often  as  you  can  —  every  day,  if  you  like,  for  I 
shall  always  be  glad  to  have  you.  I'd  keep  on 
studying,  if  I  were  you,"  she  added,  as  Chip  bright- 
ened, "it  will  help  you  oh,  and  I  will  gladly  hear 
you  recite  every  day." 

Then  hand  in  hand,  like  two  sisters,  they  left  the 
dear  old  schoolhouse.  Little  did  Miss  Phinney, 
good  soul  that  she  was,  realize  how  recently  poor 
Chip  had  cried  her  heart  almost  out  on  its  well- 
worn  sill,  or  that  never  again  would  this  strange, 
winsome,  woman-grown  pupil  enter  that  temple. 

At  the  parting  of  their  ways  the  two  embraced, 
kissed,  and  with  tear-dimmed  eyes  separated. 

"I  can't  account  for  it,"  Miss  Phinney  said  to 
herself  when  well  away.  "It  may  be  a  love-affair 
with  young  Stetson,  or  it  may  be  something  worse." 

That  evening  she  called  on  Angie.  The  result 
was  fruitless,  so  far  as  obtaining  any  light  upon  this 


242  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

puzzling  matter  was  concerned,  for  Angie  was 
either  blind  to  the  situation,  or  feigned  ignorance. 

"They  were  together  all  last  summer,  of  course," 
she  said,  "in  fact,  they  were  forced  to  be  like  two 
children,  you  know.  I  was  glad  to  have  it  so,  feel- 
ing it  would  benefit  the  girl.  If  any  love  flame  was 
started  then,  it  has  had  ample  time  to  die  out  since." 

"There  is  something  else  the  matter  with  Chip, 
then,"  Miss  Phinney  rejoined,  "she  has  been  moody 
and  quite  upset  at  times  for  the  past  few  weeks,  and 
to-day  when  school  closed,  she  sobbed  like  a  broken- 
hearted woman.  It  was  quite  pathetic,  and  I  had 
to  cry  myself." 

That  night  Angie  took  counsel  of  her  husband. 

"Well,  what  if  it  is  so,"  he  responded,  to  her  sug- 
gestion that  a  love-affair  might  have  started  between 
them.  "It  won't  harm  either.  So  far  as  I've  ob- 
served, the  girl  couldn't  have  been  better  behaved 
since  she  came  here.  She  has  never  missed  an  hour 
at  school  all  winter,  no  matter  how  cold  it  has  been. 
Her  teacher  says  she  has  made  wonderful  progress. 
She  has  attended  church  with  you  every  Sunday, 
and  as  for  Ray  —  well,  if  I  were  in  his  shoes,  I'd 
be  in  love  with  her  myself." 

It  was  clear  enough  that  Angle's  fears  were  not 
shared  by  Martin. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  243 

"But  think  of  her  origin  and  parentage,"  an- 
swered Angie,  "and  that  outlaw  father  who  might 
appear  at  any  time !  The  very  idea  of  Ray  marry- 
ing her  is  preposterous.  It  would  wreck  his  life." 

"But  what  about  Chip?"  returned  Martin,  who 
had  broader  views  of  life.  "You  brought  her  here 
to  Christianize  and  educate  her;  do  you  propose 
to  turn  her  adrift  because  she  has  a  pretty  face  and 
the  boy  sees  it?  She  isn't  to  blame  for  her  origin. 
As  for  Ray,  if  he  shows  that  he  is  able  to  support  a 
wife  and  wants  her,  I  honor  him  for  it,  and  I'll  give 
him  a  house  to  start  with." 

At  Aunt  Comfort's,  however,  no  signs  of  love 
troubles  were  visible ;  in  fact,  no  signs  of  any  sort, 
except  the  malicious  "hanging  around"  interference 
of  Hannah  whenever  Ray  was  there.  She  seemed 
to  feel  it  her  duty  to  remain  on  guard  at  such  times, 
much  to  Ray's  disgust.  No  annoyance  at  this 
was  apparent  in  Chip.  She  helped  at  housework, 
studied  at  odd  hours,  and  when  Ray  came  she  met 
and  talked  with  him  as  if  he  were  a  brother. 

The  day  he  was  to  leave  Greenvale  was  close  at 
hand,  however,  and  the  evening  before  he  came 
early,  bringing  his  banjo,  and  by  tacit  consent,  per- 
haps to  escape  Hannah,  they  both  left  the  house  at 
once. 


244  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

Just  above  the  village  there  was  a  long,  narrow 
pond,  wooded  upon  one  side  and  around  its  upper 
end,  with  partially  cleared  land  and  scattered  trees 
along  the  opposite  bank.  One  of  these  trees  was  a 
monster  beech  near  the  water's  edge,  the  trunk  of 
which  was  scarred  by  many  entwined  initials. 

To  this  lovers'  trysting  tree  now  came  Ray  and 
Chip. 

The  evening  was  not  one  for  romance,  for  no 
moon  graced  it  —  only  stars  were  reflected  from  the 
pond's  motionless  surface,  while  fireflies  twinkled 
above  it. 

The  shadow  of  the  near  parting  also  hovered  over 
these  two  as,  hand  in  hand,  they  picked  their  way 
up  and  along  the  bank;  and  once  seated  beneath 
the  tree,  it  seemed  to  forbid  speech. 

"I  wish  you'd  play  some  of  the  songs  you  used  to," 
Chip  said  at  last  hurriedly,  "I'd  like  to  think  I'm 
back  at  the  lake  again." 

Glad  to  do  so,  Ray  drew  out  his  banjo  and  began 
to  tune  it.  He  started  a  song  also  —  one  of  the 
"graveyardy"  ones  which  Old  Cy  had  interdicted, 
but  choked  at  once  and  stopped  abruptly. 

"I  can't  sing  to-night,"  he  said,  "I'm  too  blue 
about  going  away." 

There  were  two  in  this  frame  of  mind,  evidently, 


CHIP  MCGUIRE  245 

for  Chip  made  no  protest,  and  for  another  long 
interval  they  watched  the  fireflies  and  listened  to 
the  whippoorwills. 

"I  wish  you  were  going  back  with  us,"  Ray  said 
at  last.  "  It  breaks  my  heart  to  go  away  so  soon  and 
leave  you.  Why  won't  you  let  me  ask  my  uncle  to 
take  you?  He  might  be  glad  to  do  it,  just  for  me." 

"No,"  answered  Chip,  firmly,  "you  mustn't.  It 
would  shame  me  so  that  I  couldn't  look  them  in 
the  face."  Then,  as  if  this  subject  and  their  own 
feelings  must  be  avoided,  she  added  hurriedly^ 
"Tell  me  what  you  will  do  when  the  folks  come 
back  —  whether  you  will  come  with  them  or  stay 
at  the  lake?" 

"Stay  there,  I  suppose,"  answered  Ray,  somewhat 
doggedly,  for  money-making  and  love  were  in  con- 
flict. "  Old  Cy  says  we  can  make  a  lot  of  money  if 
I  will.  I  wish  I  were  rich,"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

He  was  not  the  first  young  man  to  whom  that 
wish  had  come  at  such  a  moment.  But  converse 
between  them  was  at  ebb  tide  just  now,  and  the 
parting  moment,  ever  creeping  nearer,  overshadowed 
all  else.  To  Chip  —  known  only  to  herself  —  it 
meant  forever.  To  Ray,  another  long  isolation  from 
all  the  world  and  young  associates,  and  all  for  a  few 
hundred  dollars  sorely  needed  by  him,  yet  seeming 


,246  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

of  scant  value  compared  to  the  sweet  companion- 
ship of  this  maid. 

Then  Chip's  feelings  and  the  reason  for  them  were 
quite  beyond  him.  He  could  not  see  why  she  was 
unwilling  to  ask  to  be  taken  to  the  woods  again,  nor 
why  she  held  herself  aloof  from  him.  She  had  not 
done  so  at  the  lake,  or  when  they  met  again,  and  why 
should  she  now? 

Something  of  this  might  have  been  inferred  by 
Chip,  for  she  suddenly  arose. 

"I  think  we'd  best  go  back,"  she  said.  "It's 
time,  and  Hannah  will  be  watching  for  me." 

What  Ray  might  have  said  had  he  been  a  world- 
wise  man,  does  not  matter.  What  he  did  was  to 
pick  up  his  useless  banjo,  and  clasping  Chip's  arm, 
led  her  along  the  winding  walk. 

Below  the  falls  and  near  the  house  they  paused, 
for  now  the  last  moment  alone  together  had  come, 
and  with  it  the  real  parting. 

"Tell  Old  Cy  I  — I  haven't  forgot  him,"  whis- 
pered Chip,  her  voice  quivering,  "and  —  and  — 
you  won't  forget  me  either,  will  you,  Ray?" 

That  little  sob  in  her  speech  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  break  away  the  barrier  between  them, 
for  the  next  instant  Ray's  arms  were  about  the  girl. 

No  words  of  love,  no  protestations,  no  promises. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  247 

Only  one  instant's  meeting  of  soul  and  impulse, 
fierce  as  love  of  life,  sacred  as  the  hand  of  death. 

Love  consecrated  it.  The  shadowing  maples 
blessed  it.  The  stars  hallowed  it. 

And  yet  it  was  a  long,  long  parting. 

When  Ray  rode  away  next  morning,  he  watched 
for  her  at  the  first  sharp  hilltop. 

It  was  in  vain,  for  Chip's  resolve  had  been  taken, 
and  he  never  saw  the  forlorn  figure  crouching  be- 
hind that  bush-topped  wall,  or  knew  that  two  wistful, 
misty  eyes  had  seen  him  depart. 

Few  of  us  ever  see  even  a  faint  image  of  ourselves 
as  others  see  us;  and  yet,  calm  reflection  spurred 
to  self-analysis  by  a  hungry  heart  occasionally 
effects  that  almost  miracle. 

In  Ray's  case  it  did ;  for  after  his  eager  eyes  had 
scanned  every  rod  of  that  roadside  trysting-place  in 
vain,  a  revelation  came  to  him  —  not  a  wide  open 
one,  such  as  he  deserved,  but  a  glance  at  himself 
and  his  conduct  as  it  had  been.  First  he  saw  Chip 
just  as  she  entered  their  camp  that  night  in  the  wil- 
derness, so  pitiful  in  appearance,  so  pathetic  in  her 
abject  gratitude.  Once  again  he  looked  at  her 
appealing  eyes  growing  misty  while  he  played  and 
sang  his  old-time  love  songs.  He  remembered  that 
during  all  the  days.,  weeks,  and  months  following, 


248  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

he  had  never  failed  to  find  the  love-light  of  admira- 
tion when  his  eyes  met  hers.  It  had  all  been  a 
summer  idyl,  so  sweet,  so  romantic,  so  tender,  and 
so  unexpected  that  he  had  scarce  realized  its  value 
—  not  at  all  then,  but  faintly  now. 

For  all  that  up-hill,  down-dale  journey  to  Riverton, 
he  lived  over  this  moonlit  lake  and  wilderness  camp 
episode,  and  every  hour  and  every  thought  shared 
with  him  by  this  girl  —  a  playmate  and  lover  com- 
bined —  returned  again  like  echoes  of  past  and  gone 
heart  throbs,  each  time  a  little  sweeter,  each  time 
a  trifle  more  piercing,  until  his  own  self-complacency 
faded  quite  away  and  an  abject  penitence  began  to 
replace  it.  For  the  first  time  in  his  callow  youth 
he  began  to  reflect,  and  once  started  on  this  bene- 
ficial course,  the  barometer  of  his  vanity  fell  rapidly. 
It  was  not  long  ere  his  own  conduct  since  he  returned 
to  Greenvale  also  added  an  assault.  He  had  utterly 
failed  to  realize  the  meaning  of  Chip's  abject  devo- 
tion —  her  pitiful  first-hour  confessions  of  how  hard 
she  had  studied,  and  all  for  his  sake;  how  she  had 
counted  days  and  hours  until  he  was  likely  to  return ; 
how  many  times  she  had  gone  to  the  hilltop  to  watch 
for  him;  and  even  the  eagerness  of  her  arms  and 
the  warmth  of  her  lips  at  that  first  moment  of  meet- 
ing, now  came  back  to  him. 


CHIP   MCGUIRE  249 

Another  and  even  a  more  painful  self-reproach  fol- 
lowed this  —  his  own  neglect  of  opportunities  and 
the  result. 

He  had  returned  to  Greenvale  feeling  that  Chip 
was  his  devoted  slave  and  had  found  that  she  was. 
Like  many  another  arrogant  youth,  he  had  plumed 
himself  upon  that  fact,  taking  everything  for  granted. 
He  had  yielded  to  his  aunt's  and  other  friends' 
coaxings  to  tell  his  past  winter's  history  of  life  in 
the  woods,  feeling  that  Chip  could  and  would  wait; 
and  then,  an  unexpected  and  most  vexatious  frost 
had  fallen  upon  his  little  love-garden,  and  presto  1 
his  confiding  sweetheart,  his  almost  abject  slave, 
was  one  no  longer. 

At  the  moment  of  starting,  that  wildwood  camp 
and  charming  lake  had  seemed  a  Mecca  which  he 
must  hasten  to  reach  once  more.  When  he  again 
beheld  it,  it  had  lost  its  fairness,  and  to  return  to 
Greenvale  and  beg  and  implore  Chip's  forgiveness 
—  ay,  even  kneel  to  her,  if  need  be  —  seemed  the 
only  duty  life  held. 

His  punishment  had  only  just  begun. 


PART   II 
VERA    RAYMOND 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FOR  a  few  more  days,  Chip  lived  the  life  that  had 
now  become  unbearable,  and  then  the  end  came. 
It  was  hastened,  perhaps,  by  Hannah,  for  that  ill- 
tempered  spinster  had  been  ever  watchful,  and  with 
shrewd  insight  had  seen  or  guessed  all  that  had 
transpired. 

"I  s'pose  ye  know  why  the  Frisbies  hurried  away 
so  soon  after  Ray  got  back,"  she  said  to  Chip  that 
last  day.  "If  you  don't,  I  can  tell  ye.  It  was  'cos 
they  noticed  the  goin's  on  'tween  you  an'  him,  an' 
wanted  to  head  it  off." 

Not  a  word  of  protest  came  from  the  poor  child 
in  response  to  this  sneer,  and  that  night  she  wrote 
two  notes,  one  to  Miss  Phinney,  the  other  to  Aunt 
Comfort.  Then,  making  a  bundle  of  the  few  be- 
longings she  could  call  her  own  —  the  beaded 
moccasins,  cap,  and  fur  cape  old  Tomah  had  given 
her,  and  other  trifles  —  she  waited  until  almost  mid- 
night and  stole  out  of  the  house. 

Once  before  she  had  left  her  only  shelter,  in 
a  more  desperate  mood.  Now  the  same  impulse 
253 


254  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

nerved  her,  and  for  ample  reason.  Dependent  upon 
the  bounty  of  those  in  no  wise  kin  to  her,  tortured 
by  the  sarcastic  tongue  of  Hannah,  her  heart  hunger- 
ing for  a  love  she  believed  could  never  be  hers,  no 
other  outcome  seemed  possible ;  and  defiant  still,  yet 
saddened  beyond  all  words,  she  set  out  to  escape  it  all. 

Where  to  go,  she  knew  not  nor  cared  —  only  to 
leave  Greenvale  and  all  the  shame,  sorrow,  and  hu- 
miliation it  held  for  her,  and  make  her  own  way  in 
the  world  as  best  she  could. 

The  village  street  was  as  silent  as  midnight  always 
found  it.  The  low  murmur  of  the  Mizzy  Falls 
whispered  down  the  valley.  A  half-moon  was  just 
rising,  and  as  Chip  reached  the  hilltop  where  she  had 
waited  for  Ray,  she  halted.  From  here  must  be 
taken  the  last  glance  at  Greenvale,  and  as  she  turned 
about  a  sob  rose  in  her  heart,  in  spite  of  her  stern 
resolve,  for  ties  cannot  be  sundered  easily. 

And  how  vivid  and  life-lasting  was  that  picture ! 
The  two  long  rows  of  white  houses  facing  the  broad 
street,  the  tall-spired  church  in  the  middle  of  them ; 
scattered  dwellings  to  the  right  and  left ;  away  to  one 
side  the  little  brown  schoolhouse  that  had  been  her 
Mecca;  the  stream  that  wound  through  the  broad 
meadows;  and  over  all  the  faint  sheen  of  the  rising 
moon. 


VERA  RAYMOND  255 

Only  for  a  moment  she  paused  for  this  good-bye 
look,  then  turned  and  ran.  On  and  on  she  sped 
mile  after  mile,  up  hill,  down  hill,  halting  now  and 
then  for  breath  until  a  cross-road  was  reached,  and 
here  she  stopped.  Here  also  came  the  question  of 
direction.  To  follow  the  main  road  was  to  reach 
Riverton,  between  which  and  Greenvale  the  stage 
journeyed.  To  go  there  meant  being  recognized 
perhaps.  In  her  study  of  geography,  she  had  found 
that  the  village  which  was  her  birthplace  lay  north- 
east from  Greenvale.  She  meant  sometime  and 
somehow  to  reach  that  spot  and  visit  her  mother's 
grave  once  more,  and  also,  if  possible,  to  send  word 
to  Old  Tomah.  And  so  guided  by  this  vague  plan, 
she  turned  to  the  left. 

From  now  on  the  road  became  narrow.  Miles 
elapsed  between  houses,  and  Chip,  wearied  and 
heavy-eyed,  could  only  creep  along.  The  way 
became  more  devious  now,  bending  around  a  wooded 
hill  and  then  crossing  a  wide  swamp  to  enter  a  stretch 
of  forest.  Direction  became  lost  in  these  turnings, 
the  road  grew  hilly  and  less  travelled.  The  moon 
scarce  showed  it;  and  Chip,  almost  exhausted, 
stumbled  over  stones  and  felt  that  she  was  becoming 
lost  in  an  unsettled  country.  And  then,  just  as  she 
emerged  from  a  thicket  and  ascended  a  low  hill,  the 


256  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

light  of  coming  dawn  faced  her,  and  with  it  the  need 
of  sleep  and  concealment. 

Full  well  she  knew  she  must  avoid  all  observing 
eyes  and  place  many  more  miles  between  herself  and 
Greenvale  to  be  certain  of  escape.  And  then,  as 
the  daylight  increased,  she  caught  sight  of  an  old, 
almost  ruined  dwelling  half  hid  among  bushes  just 
ahead.  Even  if  empty,  as  it  appeared,  it  would 
serve  for  shelter,  and  finding  it  so,  she  crept  in,  so 
wearied  that  she  fell  asleep  at  once  on  the  warped 
and  mouldy  floor. 

It  was  only  a  brief  nap,  for  soon  the  rattle  of  a 
passing  farm  wagon  woke  her,  but  refreshed  some- 
what by  it,  she  again  pushed  on. 

Soon  a  brook,  singing  cheerfully  as  it  tumbled 
down  a  ledge,  was  reached,  and  here  Chip  bathed 
her  face  and  hands  and  drank  of  the  sweet,  cool 
water. 

Hunger  also  asserted  itself,  but  that  did  not  daunt 
her.  She  had  faced  it  once  before. 

Then  something  of  a  plan  as  to  her  future  move- 
ments began  to  shape  itself  in  her  mind,  following 
which  came  an  increased  courage  and  self-reliance. 
Not  a  cent  did  she  now  possess.  Food  she  could 
not  have  until  she  had  made  good  her  escape  and 
could  earn  it  somewhere. 


VERA  RAYMOND  257 

But  the  sun  was  shining,  the  birds  were  singing, 
her  young,  supple  body  was  strong^  life  and  the 
world  were  ahead;  and,  best  of  all,  never  again 
would  she  have  to  feel  herself  a  dependant  upon 
any  one. 

With  these  blessings,  scant  to  most  of  us,  hardened 
as  she  had  been  by  servitude  at  Tim's  Place,  came  a 
certain  buoyancy  of  spirit  and  defiance  of  all  things 
human. 

No  wild  beasts  were  here  to  menace,  no  spites  to 
creep  and  crawl  along  fence  or  hedgerow,  no  hideous 
half-breed  to  pursue,  and  as  she  counted  her  bless- 
ings, while  her  spirits  rose,  a  new  life  and  new  hope 
came  to  her. 

And  now  another  feeling  came  —  the  certainty 
that  she  had  come  so  far  that  no  one  would  recognize 
her.  At  first  that  morning,  when  she  heard  a  team 
coming  or  overtaking  her,  she  had  hidden  by  the 
roadside  until  it  passed.  When  a  house  was  sighted 
ahead,  she  made  a  wide  detour  in  the  fields  to  avoid 
it.  Now  this  sense  of  caution  vanished,  and  she 
strode  on  fearless  and  confident. 

When  night  came  again  she  crept  into  an  unused 
sheep  barn,  and  when  daylight  wakened  her,  she 
hurried  on  one*  mere. 

During  all  that  first  day's  journey,  her  one  fea/ 


258  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

had  been  that  some  one  she  would  meet  might  recog- 
nize her  and  report  the  fact  in  Greenvale.  To 
avoid  that  had  been  her  sole  thought.  Now  that 
feeling  of  danger  was  vanishing,  and  when  people 
were  met,  she  looked  at  them  fearlessly  and  kept  on. 
When  cross-roads  were  reached  and  a  choice  in  ways 
became  necessary,  she  followed  the  one  nearest  to 
northeast,  and  for  the  reason  that  her  school  map 
had  shown  that  her  birthplace  lay  in  this  direction. 
How  far  away  it  was,  she  had  not  the  faintest  idea, 
or  whether  she  could  live  to  reach  it.  Her  sole 
thought  was  to  escape  Greenvale  and  the  humiliat- 
ing life  of  dependence  there,  and  when  she  was  so 
far  away  that  no  one  could  find  her,  obtain  work 
at  some  farm-house. 

All  that  second  day  she  plodded  on  that  same 
patient  up-hill,  down-dale  journey,  never  halting 
except  to  pick  a  few  berries,  or  where  a  brook  crossed 
the  road  to  obtain  a  handful  of  water-cress  or  some 
sweet-flag  buds. 

Now  and  then  villages  were  passed,  again  it  was 
country  sparsely  settled,  where  farm-houses  were 
wide  apart,  and  when  this  day  was  waning,  even 
these  had  vanished  and  she  found  herself  in  almost 
a  wilderness  once  more. 

Hills  now  met  her  already  weary  feet ;  they  seemed 


Won't  you  please  give  me  a  lift  an'  a  chance  to   earn  my  vittles 
for  a  day  or  two  ?  " 


VERA  RAYMOND  259 

never  ending,  for  as  the  crown  of  one  was  reached, 
another  met  her  eyes.  The  roadway  also  became 
badly  gullied,  always  stony,  with  grass  growing  in 
the  hollows. 

By  now  she  was  faint  and  dizzy  from  two  days' 
fasting,  and  so  footsore  that  she  could  scarce  limp 
along.  So  far  her  defiant  pride  had  kept  her  from 
begging  food,  but  now  that  was  weakening,  and  at 
the  next  house  she  would  have  asked  a  morsel.  But 
no  next  house  came.  Only  the  same  scrub  growth 
along  the  wayside  with  now  and  then  a  patch  of 
forest,  with  never  a  fence  even,  to  indicate  human 
ownership. 

The  sun  had  now  vanished.  Already  the  stretches 
of  forest  were  shadowy,  and  as  Chip  reached  the 
apex  of  another  long  hill,  beyond  and  far  below  she 
could  see  another  darkened  valley.  Night  seemed 
creeping  up  from  it  to  meet  her.  Not  a  house,  not 
even  a  fence  or  recent  clearing  —  only  the  unending 
tangle  of  green  growth  and  this  dark  vale  beyond. 

"I  guess  I'll  starve  'fore  I  find  another  house," 
poor  Chip  muttered,  and  then  as  the  utter  desolation 
of  her  situation  and  surroundings  were  realized  for 
a  moment,  her  defiant  courage  gave  way. 

For  two  days  and  half  a  night  she  had  plodded  on 
without  food  and  with  scarce  a  moment's  rest.  Her 


200  THE  GIRL  PROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

feet  were  blistered,  her  eyes  smarted  from  sun  and 
dust,  her  head  swam.  She  was  miles  away  from 
any  human  habitation,  footsore,  weary,  and  despon- 
dent, with  night  enclosing  her  —  a  homeless  waif,  still 
clinging  to  the  small  bundle  that  contained  her  all. 

But  now  as  she  crouched  by  the  roadside,  too 
exhausted  to  move  on,  the  memory  of  those  three 
days  and  nights  of  horror,  one  year  ago,  came  to  her. 
Her  plight  was  bad  enough  now,  but  nothing  to 
compare  with  what  it  was  then,  and  as  all  the  terror 
and  desperation  of  that  mad  flight  now  returned,  it 
renewed  her  courage. 

"I  ain't  so  bad  off  as  I  was  then,"  she  said.  "I'm 
sure  of  finding  a  house  to-morrow." 

And  now,  as  if  this  moment  marked  the  turning- 
point  of  her  fortunes,  from  far  down  the  hill  she  had 
climbed,  came  the  faint  creak,  creak,  and  jolting 
sound  of  an  ascending  wagon.  Slowly  it  neared, 
until  just  at  the  hilltop  where  Chip  sat,  the  tired 
horse  halted,  and  its  driver  saw  her  rise  almost 
beside  the  wagon. 

"Mister,"  she  said,  "I'm  nearly  tuckered  out  and 
'bout  starved.  Won't  you  please  give  me  a  lift  an' 
a  chance  to  earn  my  vittles  for  a  day  or  two?" 

The  man  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"Why  sartin,  sartin,"  he  answered  in  a  moment, 


VERA  RAYMOND  26l 

"  but  who  be  ye  ?  I  thought  for  a  minute  ye  was  a 
sperit.  Git  up  here,"  he  added,  without  waiting  for 
a  reply  and  moving  to  make  room.  Then  as  Chip 
obeyed,  he  chirruped  to  his  horse  and  down  the  hill 
they  rattled. 

"Who  might  be  ye,  girlie,  an'  whar'd  ye  come 
from?"  he  asked  again,  as  they  came  to  another 
ascent  and  the  horse  walked. 

"My  name's  Vera,  Vera  —  Raymond,"  answered 
Chip,  "  an'  I  run  away  from  where  I  was  livin'." 

"That's  curis,"  answered  the  old  man,  glancing 
at  her ;  "  whar'd  ye  run  away  from,  some  poor  farm  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Chip,  almost  defiantly,  "but  I 
guess  I  was  a  sort  o'  pauper.  I  was  livin'  with 
folks  that  fetched  me  out  o'  the  woods  an'  was 
schoolin'  me,  and  I  couldn't  stand  it,  so  I  run  away. 
I  don't  want  to  tell  where  they  be,  or  where  I  came 
from  either,"  she  added  in  a  moment,  "for  I  don't 
want  them  ever  to  find  me." 

"Wai,  that's  a  proper  sort  o'  feelin',"  responded 
the  man,  still  looking  at  his  passenger,  "an'  I  don't 
mind.  I  live  down  beyond  here  in  what's  called 
the  Holler.  Somebody  called  it  Peaceful  Valley 
once.  We'll  take  keer  o'  ye  to-night  'n'  to-morrer 
we'll  see  what's  best  to  be  done.  I  guess  ye  need 
a  hum  'bout  ez  bad  ez  a  body  kin,  anyway." 


262  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

And  so  Chip  McGuire,  waif  of  the  wilderness  and 
erstwhile  prote'ge'e  of  a  philanthropic  woman,  as  Vera 
Raymond  found  another  home,  and  began  still 
another  life  with  this  old  farmer,  Judson  Walker, 
and  his  wife  Mandy. 

But  a  sorrow  deeper  far  than  Chip  ever  realized 
fell  upon  Aunt  Comfort  when  her  brimming  eyes 
read  her  note  the  morning  after  her  flight. 

"DEAR  AUNT  COMFORT, 

"I  can't  stand  Hannah  or  being  a  pauper  any 
longer.  She  as  good  as  told  me  I  wanted  your 
money  and  I  never  thought  of  it.  She  said  I  wasn't 
good  enough  for  Ray,  either,  and  that  was  the  reason 
Mrs.  Frisbie  took  him  away  so  soon.  I  know  I 
ain't  good  for  nothin'  nor  nobody,  but  I  didn't  ask 
to  be  fetched  here  and  I  am  going  away,  never,  never, 
never  to  come  back.  If  ever  I  can,  I  will  pay  you 
and  Mrs.  Frisbie  for  all  I've  eat  and  had. 

"Good-bye  Forever, 

"Cmp." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"  There's  a  heap  o1  comfort  in  lookin'  on  the  dark  side  o* 
life  cheerfully."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

OLD  CY  especially  found  life  dull  after  Ray  had 
gone.  The  hermit  also  appeared  to  miss  him  and 
became  more  morose  than  ever.  He  never  had  been 
what  might  be  termed  social,  speaking  only  when 
spoken  to,  and  then  only  in  the  fewest  possible 
words.  Now  Old  Cy  became  almost  a  walking 
sphinx,  and  found  that  time  passed  slowly.  His 
heartstrings  had  somehow  become  entwined  with 
Ray's  hopes  and  plans.  He  had  bent  every  energy 
and  thought  to  secure  for  Ray  a  valuable  stock  of 
furs  and  gum,  and,  as  was  his  nature,  felt  a  keen 
satisfaction  in  helping  that  youth  to  a  few  hundred 
dollars. 

Now  Ray  had  departed,  furs,  gum,  and  all.  He 
had  promised  to  return  with  Martin  and  Angie  later 
on,  but  of  that  Old  Cy  felt  somewhat  dubious,  and 
so  the  old  man  mourned. 

There  was  no  real  reason  for  it,  for  all  Nature  was 
now  smiling.  The  lake  was  blue  and  rippled  by 

263 


264  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

the  June  breezes;  trout  leaped  out  of  it  night  and 
morning;  flowers  were  blooming,  squirrels  frisking, 
birds  singing  and  nest-building;  and  what  Old  Cy 
most  enjoyed,  the  vernal  season  was  at  hand. 

Another  matter  also  disturbed  him  —  the  where- 
abouts of  McGuire  and  the  half-breed,  Pete  Bolduc. 

Levi  had  brought  the  information  that  neither  had 
been  seen  nor  heard  of  since  the  previous  autumn; 
but  that  was  not  conclusive,  and  somehow  Old  Cy 
felt  that  a  certain  mystery  had  attached  itself  to  them, 
and  once  we  suspect  a  mystery,  it  pursues  us  like  a 
phantom.  He  did  not  fear  either  of  these  renegades, 
however.  He  had  never  harmed  them.  But  he 
felt  that  any  day  might  bring  a  call  from  one  or  the 
other,  or  that  some  tragic  outcome  would  be  dis- 
closed. 

Another  problem  also  annoyed  him  —  who  this 
thief  of  their  game  could  be,  and  whether  his  sup- 
posed cave  lair  was  a  permanent  hiding-spot. 

Two  reasons  had  kept  Old  Cy  from  another  visit 
to  that  sequestered  lake  during  the  fall  trapping 
season:  first,  its  evident  danger,  and  then  lack  of 
time.  But  now,  with  nothing  to  do  except  wait 
for  the  incoming  ones,  an  impulse  to  visit  again  this 
mysterious  spot  came  to  him. 

He  had,  at  the  former  excursion,  felt  almost  cer- 


VERA  RAYMOND  265 

tain  that  this  unknown  trapper  was  either  McGuire 
or  the  half-breed.  Some  assertions  made  by  Levi 
seemed  to  corroborate  that  theory,  and  impelled  by 
it,  Old  Cy  started  alone,  one  morning,  to  visit  this 
lake  again.  It  took  him  until  midday  to  carry  his 
canoe,  camp  outfit,  rifle,  and  all  across  from  stream 
to  stream,  and  twilight  had  come  ere  he  reached  the 
lagoon  where  he  and  Ray  had  left  the  main  stream 
and  camped.  Up  here  Old  Cy  now  turned  his  canoe, 
and  repairing  the  bark  shack  they  had  built,  which 
had  been  crushed  by  winter's  snow,  he  camped 
there  again. 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  he  launched  his 
canoe  and  once  more  followed  the  winding  stream 
through  the  dark  gorge  and  out  into  the  rippled  lake 
again. 

Here  he  halted  and  looked  about. 

No  signs  of  aught  human  could  be  seen.  The  long, 
narrow  lakelet  sparkled  beneath  the  morning  sun. 
The  bald  mountain  frowned  upon  it,  the  jagged 
ledges  just  across  faced  him  like  serried  ramparts, 
an  eagle  slowly  circled  overhead,  and,  best  indication 
of  primal  solitude,  an  antlered  deer  stood  looking  at 
him  from  out  an  opening  above  the  ledges. 

"Guess  I'm  alone  here!"  exclaimed  Old  Cy, 
glancing  around;  "but  if  this  ain't  a  pictur  worth 


266  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

rememberin',  I  never  saw  one.  Wish  I  could  take 
it  with  me  into  t'other  world;  an'  if  I  was  sure  o* 
findin'  a  spot  like  it  thar,  I'd  never  worry  'bout 
goin'  when  my  time  comes." 

After  a  long  wait,  as  if  he  wanted  to  observe 
every  detail  of  this  wondrous  picture  of  wildwood 
beauty,  he  dipped  his  paddle,  crossed  the  sheet  of 
rippled  water,  and  stepped  ashore  at  the  very  spot 
where  he  and  Ray  had  landed  over  eight  months 
before. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  around, 
"if  thar  ain't  a  canoe,  bottom  up  !  Two,  by  ginger ! " 
he  added,  as  he  saw  another  drawn  out  and  half  hid 
by  a  low  ledge. 

To  this  second  one  he  hastened  at  once,  and  looked 
into  it. 

It  had  evidently  rested  there  all  winter,  for  it  was 
partially  filled  with  water,  and  half  afloat  in  it  were 
two  paddles  and  a  setting  pole.  A  gunny-cloth  bag, 
evidently  containing  the  usual  cooking  outfit  of  a 
woodsman,  lay  soaking  in  one  end,  a  frying-pan 
and  an  axe  were  rusting  in  the  other,  and  a  coating 
of  mould  had  browned  each  crossbar  and  thwart. 

"Been  here  quite  a  spell,  all  winter,  I  guess," 
muttered  Old  Cy,  looking  it  over,  and  then  he 
advanced  to  the  other  canoe.  That  was,  as  he  as- 


VERA  RAYMOND  267 

serted,  bottom  up,  and  also  lay  half  hid  back  of  a 
jutting  ledge  of  slate.  Two  paddles  leaned  against 
this  ledge,  and  near  by  was  another  setting  pole.  All 
three  of  these  familiar  objects  were  brown  with  damp 
mould  and  evidently  had  rested  there  many  months. 

"Curis,  curis,"  muttered  Old  Cy  again.  "I 
callated  I'd  find  nothin'  here,  'n'  here's  two  canoes 
left  to  rot,  'n'  been  here  all  winter." 

Then  with  a  vague  sense  of  need,  he  returned  to 
his  canoe,  seized  his  rifle,  looked  all  around,  over  the 
lake,  up  into  the  green  tangle  above  the  ledges,  and 
finally  followed  the  narrow  passage  leading  to  where 
he  had  once  watched  smoke  arise.  Here  on  top  of 
this  ledge  he  again  halted  and  looked  about. 

Back  of  it  was  the  same  V-shaped  cleft  across 
which  a  cord  had  held  drying  pelts,  the  cord  was 
still  there,  and  below  it  he  could  see  the  dark  skins 
amid  the  confusion  of  jagged  stones. 

Turning,  he  stepped  from  this  ledge  to  the  lower 
one  nearer  the  lake,  walked  down  its  slope,  and 
looked  about  again.  At  its  foot  was  a  long,  narrow, 
shelf-like  projection,  ending  at  the  corner  of  the  ledge. 
Old  Cy  followed  this  to  its  end  and  stepped  down  into 
a  narrow  crevasse. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  a  backward 
step  as  he  did  so. 


268  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

And  well  he  might,  for  there  at  his  feet  lay  a  rifle 
coated  with  rust  beside  a  brown  felt  hat. 

Had  a  grinning  skull  met  his  eyes,  he  would  not 
have  been  more  astounded.  In  fact,  that  was  the 
next  object  he  expected  to  see,  and  he  glanced  up 
and  down  the  crevasse  for  it.  None  leered  at  him, 
however,  and  picking  up  the  rusted  weapon,  he 
continued  his  search. 

Two  rods  or  so  below  where  he  had  climbed  the 
upper  ledge,  he  was  halted  again,  for  there,  at  his 
hand  almost,  was  a  curious  doorlike  opening  some 
three  feet  high  and  one  foot  wide,  back  of  an  outstand- 
ing slab  of  slate. 

The  two  abandoned  canoes  had  surprised  him,  the 
rusty  rifle  astonished  him,  but  this,  a  self-evident 
cave  entrance,  almost  took  his  breath  away. 

For  one  instant  he  glanced  at  it,  stepped  back  a 
step,  dropped  the  rusty  rifle  and  cocked  his  own, 
as  if  expecting  a  ghost  or  panther  to  emerge.  None 
came,  however,  and  once  more  Old  Cy  advanced 
and  peered  into  this  opening.  A  faint  light  illumined 
its  interior  —  a  weird  slant  of  sunlight,  yet  enough 
to  show  a  roomy  cavern. 

The  mystery  was  solved.  This  surely  was  the 
hiding-spot  of  the  strange  trapper ! 

"Can't  see  why  I  missed  it  afore,"  Old  Cy  muttered, 


VERA  RAYMOND  269 

kneeling  that  he  might  better  look  within,  and  sniff- 
ing at  the  peculiar  odor.  "Wonder  if  the  cuss  is 
dead  in  thar,  or  what  smells  so!" 

Then  he  arose  and  grasped  the  slab  of  slate.  One 
slight  pull  and  it  fell  aside. 

"A  nat'ral  door,  by  hokey !  "  exclaimed  Old  Cy, 
and  once  more  he  knelt  and  looked  in. 

The  bravest  man  will  hesitate  a  moment  before 
entering  such  a  cavern,  prefaced,  so  to  speak,  by 
two  abandoned  canoes,  a  rusty  rifle,  human  head 
covering,  each  and  all  bespeaking  something  tragic, 
and  Old  Cy  was  no  exception.  That  he  had  come 
upon  some  grewsome  mystery  was  apparent.  Canoes 
were  not  left  to  rot  in  the  wilderness  or  rifles  dropped 
without  cause. 

And  then,  that  hat ! 

Surely  here,  or  hereabout,  had  been  enacted  a 
drama  of  murderous  nature,  and  inside  this  cavern 
might  repose  its  blood-stained  sequel. 

But  the  filtering  beams  of  light  encouraged  Old 
Cy,  and  he  entered.  No  ghastly  corpse  confronted 
him,  but  instead  a  human,  if  cramped,  abode.  A 
fireplace  deftly  fashioned  of  slate  occupied  one  side 
of  this  cave;  in  front  a  low  table  of  the  same  flat 
stone,  resting  upon  small  ones;  and  upon  the  table 
were  rusty  tin  dishes,  a  few  mouldy  hardtack,  a 


270  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

knife,  fork,  and  scraps  of  meat,  exhaling  the  odor  of 
decay.  A  smell  of  smoke  from  the  charred  wood  in 
the  fireplace  mingled  with  it  all.  In  one  corner  was 
a  bed  of  brown  fir  twigs,  also  mouldy,  a  blanket, 
and  tanned  deerskins. 

The  cave  was  of  oval,  irregular  shape,  barely  high 
enough  for  Old  Cy  to  stand  upright.  Across  its 
roof,  on  either  side  of  the  rude  chimney,  a  narrow 
crack  admitted  light,  and  as  he  looked  about,  he 
saw  in  the  dim  light  another  doorlike  opening  into 
still  another  cave.  Into  this  he  peered,  but  could 
see  nothing. 

"A  queer  livin'  spot,"  he  muttered  at  last,  "a 
reg'lar  human  panther  den.  An'  'twas  out  o'  this 
I  seen  the  smoke  come.  An'  here's  his  gun,"  he 
added,  as,  more  accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  he  saw 
one  in  a  corner.  "Two  guns,  two  canoes,  an' 
nobody  to  hum,"  he  continued.  "I'm  safe,  anyhow. 
But  I've  got  to  peek  into  that  other  cave,  sartin 
sure,"  and  he  withdrew  to  the  open  air. 

A  visit  to  a  couple  of  birches  soon  provided  means 
of  light,  and  he  again  entered  the  cave.  One  mo- 
ment more,  and  then  a  flaring  torch  of  bark  was 
thrust  into  the  inner  cave,  a  mere  crevasse  not  four 
feet  wide,  and  stooping,  as  he  now  had  to,  Old  Cy 
entered  and  knelt  while  he  looked  about. 


VERA  RAYMOND  271 

He  saw  nothing  here  of  interest  except  the  serried 
rows  of  jutting  slate,  across  two  of  which  lay  a  slab 
of  the  same  —  no  vestige  of  aught  human,  and  Old 
Cy  was  about  to  retreat  when  his  flare  burning  close 
to  his  finger  tips  unnoticed,  caused  him  to  drop  it  on 
the  instant,  and  drawing  another  from  his  pocket 
he  lit  it  while  the  flame  lasted  in  the  first  one. 

It  is  said  that  great  discoveries  are  almost  invari- 
ably made  by  some  trifling  accident  —  a  gold  mine 
found  by  stumbling  over  a  stone,  a  valley  prolific 
of  diamonds  disclosed. by  digging  for  water. 

In  this  case  it  was  true,  for  as  Old  Cy  bent  to 
light  his  second  torch  ere  he  withdrew  from  the 
inner  cave,  a  flash  of  reflected  light  came  from 
beneath  this  slab  —  only  for  one  second,  but  enough 
to  attract  his  attention. 

He  stooped  again  and  lifted  the  slab.  Six  large 
tin  cans  had  been  hidden  by  it.  He  grasped  one 
and  could  scarce  lift  it.  Again  his  fingers  closed 
over  it.  He  crawled  backward  to  the  better-lighted 
cave  and  drew  the  cover  off  the  can  with  eager  motion, 
and  poured  a  heap  of  shining,  glittering  coin  out  upon 
that  food-littered  table. 

Into  that  dark  hole  he  dived  again,  as  a  starved 
dog  leaps  for  food,  seized  the  cans,  two  at  a  time, 
almost  tumbled  back,  and  emptied  them.  Four 


272  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

had  been  filled  with  gold  coin  and  two  stuffed  with 
paper  money. 

Folded  with  these  bills  of  all  denominations  from 
one  to  fifty  dollars  was  a  legal  paper  yellowed  by 
age,  with  a  red  seal  still  glowing  like  a  spot  of  blood. 

It  was  an  innholder's  license,  authorizing  one 
Thomas  McGuire  to  furnish  food,  shelter,  and  en- 
tertainment for  man  and  beast. 

With  eyes  almost  tear-dimmed  and  heart  throb- 
bing at  having  found  poor  Chip's  splendid  heritage, 
Old  Cy  now  gazed  at  it. 

The  sharp  stones  upon  which  he  knelt  nearly 
pierced  his  flesh,  but  he  felt  them  not. 

The  glint  of  sunlight  from  the  crack  above  caressed 
his  scant  gray  hairs  and  white  fringing  beard,  form- 
ing almost  a  halo,  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

He  only  knew  that  here,  before  him,  on  this  rude 
stone  table,  lay  thousands  of  dollars,  all  belonging 
to  the  child  he  loved. 

"Thank  God,  little  gal,"  he  said  at  last,  "I've 
found  what  belongs  to  ye,  'n'  ye  hain't  got  to  want 
for  nothin'  no  more.  I  wish  I  could  kiss  ye  now." 

Little  did  he  realize  that  at  this  very  moment  of 
thankfulness  for  her  sake,  poor  Chip  was  lost  to  all 
who  knew  her,  and,  half  starved  and  almost  hope- 
less, knew  not  where  to  find  shelter. 


'Thank  God,  little  gal,  I've  found  what  belongs  tc  ye. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"When  life  looks  darkest  to  ye,  count  yer  blessin's, boy, 
count  yer  blessin's."  —  OLD  Cy  WALKER. 

WHEN  the  sun  rose  again  and  Chip  awoke,  she 
scarce  knew  where  she  was.  Outside,  and  almost 
reaching  the  one  window  of  her  little  room,  was  the 
top  of  an  apple  tree  in  full  bloom.  Below  she  could 
hear  ducks  quacking,  now  and  then  a  barnyard 
monarch's  defiant  crow,  from  farther  away  came 
the  rippling  sound  of  running  water,  and  as  she 
lay  and  listened  to  the  medley,  a  robin  lit  on  the  tree- 
top  not  ten  feet  away  and  chirped  as  he  peered  into 
her  window.  A  scent  of  lavender  mingled  with 
apple  blossoms  became  noticeable  ;  then  the  few 
and  very  old-fashioned  fittings  of  the  room,  —  a  chest 
of  drawers  with  little  brass  handles,  over  it  a  narrow 
mirror  with  gilt  frame,  two  wood-seated  chairs 
painted  blue,  and  white  muslin  curtains  draped 
away  from  the  window. 

And  now,  conscious  that  she  was  in  some  strange 
place,  back  in  an  instant  came  the  three  days  of  her 
long,  weary  tramp,  the  nights  when  she  had  slept 
273 


274  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

in  a  sheep  barn  and  in  a  deserted  dwelling,  and  at 
last,  faint,  footsore,  and  almost  hopeless,  she  had 
been  rescued  from  another  night  with  only  the  sky 
for  a  roof. 

Then  the  quaint  old  man,  so  much  like  Old  Cy, 
whom  she  had  accosted,  the  rattling,  bumping  ride 
down  into  this  valley,  and  the  halt  where  a  cheery 
light  beamed  its  welcome  and  a  motherly  woman 
made  it  real. 

It  was  all  so  unexpected,  so  satisfying,  so  pro- 
tective of  herself,  that  Chip  could  hardly  realize  how 
it  had  come  about. 

No  questions  had  been  asked  of  her  here.  These 
two  quaint  old  people  had  taken  her  as  she  was  — 
dusty,  dirty,  and  travel-worn.  She  had  bathed 
and  been  helped  to  an  ample  meal  and  shown  to 
this  sweet-smelling  room  as  if  she  had  been  their 
own  daughter. 

"They  must  be  awful  kind  sort  o'  people,"  Chip 
thought,  and  then  creeping  out  of  bed  she  dressed, 
and  taking  her  stockings  and  sadly  worn  shoes  in 
hand  softly  descended  the  stairs. 

No  one  seemed  astir  anywhere.  The  ticking  of 
a  tall  clock  in  the  sitting  room  was  the  only  sound, 
the  back  door  was  wide  open,  and  out  of  this 
Chip  passed  and,  seating  herself  on  a  bench,  began 


VERA   RAYMOND  275 

putting  on  stockings  and  shoes.  This  was  scarce 
done  ere  she  heard  a  step  and  saw  the  old  man 
emerge  from  the  same  door. 

"Wai,  Pattycake,  how  air  ye?"  he  asked,  smiling. 
"I  heerd  ye  creepin'  downstairs  like  a  mouse,  but  I 
was  up,  'n'  'bout  dressed.  Hope  ye  slept  well.  It's 
Sunday,"  he  added,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  "an' 
we  don't  git  up  quite  so  arly  ez  usual.  Ye  can  help 
Mandy  'bout  breakfast  now,  if  ye  like,  'n'  I'll  do  the 
milkin'." 

And  this  marked  the  entry  of  Chip  into  the  new 
home,  and  outlined  her  duties.  No  more  questions 
were  asked  of  her.  She  was  taken  at  her  own  valua- 
tion —  a  needy  girl,  willing  to  work  for  her  board, 
insisting  on  it,  and  yet,  in  a  few  days,  so  hospitable 
were  these  people  and  so  winsome  was  Chip,  that 
she  stepped  into  their  affection,  as  it  were,  almost 
without  effort. 

"I  don't  think  we  best  quiz  her  much,"  Uncle 
Jud  (as  he  was  known)  said  to  his  wife  that  first 
night.  "I  found  her  on  the  top  o'  Bangall  Hill, 
where  she  riz  up  like  a  ghost.  She  'lowed  she  run 
away  from  somewhar,  but  where  'twas,  she  didn't 
want  to  tell.  My  'pinion  is  thar's  a  love  'fair  at  the 
bottom  on't  all;  but  whether  it's  so  or  not,  it  ain't 
none  o'  our  business.  She  needs  a  home,  sartin 


276  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

sure.  She  says  she  means  to  aim  her  keep,  which 
is  the  right  spent,  an'  long  as  she  minds  us,  she  kin 
have  it." 

That  Chip  "aimed  her  keep"  and  something 
more  was  soon  evinced,  for  in  two  weeks  it  was 
"Aunt  Mandy"  and  "Uncle  Jud  "  from  her,  and 
"Patty"  or  "Patty cake,"  the  nickname  given  her 
that  first  morning,  from  them.  More  than  that, 
so  rapidly  had  she  won  her  way  here  that  by  now 
Uncle  Jud  had  visited  the  Riggsville  store,  some 
four  miles  down  this  valley,  and  materials  for  two 
dresses,  new  shoes,  a  broad  sun  hat,  and  other 
much- needed  clothing  were  bought  for  Chip. 

Neither  was  it  all  one-sided,  for  these  people, 
well-to-do  in  their  isolated  home,  were  also  quite 
alone.  Their  two  boys  had  grown  up,  gone  away 
and  married,  and  had  homes  of  their  own,  and  the 
company  of  a  bright  and  winsome  girl  like  Chip 
was  needed  in  this  home. 

Her  adoption  and  acceptance  of  it  were  like  a 
small  stream  flowing  into  a  larger  one,  for  the  reason 
that  these  people  were  almost  primitive  in  location 
and  custom. 

"We  don't  go  to  meetin'  Sundays,"  Uncle  Jud 
had  explained  that  first  day  after  breakfast.  "We're 
sorter  heathen,  I  s'pose;  but  then  ag'in,  thar  ain't 


VERA  RAYMOND  277 

no  chance.  Thar  used  to  be  meetin's  down  to  the 
Corners,  'n'  a  parson ;  but  he  only  got  four  hundred  a 
year,  an'  hard  work  to  collect  that,  *n'  so  he  gin  the 
job  up.  Since  then  the  meetin' -house  has  kinder 
gone  to  pieces,  'n'  the  Corner  folks  use  it  now  for 
storin'  tools.  We  obsarve  Sundays  here  by  bein' 
sorter  lazy,  'n'  I  go  fishin'  some  or  pickin'  berries." 

To  Chip,  reared  at  Tim's  Place,  and  whose  knowl- 
edge of  Sunday  was  its  strict  observance  at  Green- 
vale,  this  seemed  a  relief.  Sundays  there  had  never 
been  pleasant  days  to  her.  She  could  not  under- 
stand what  the  preaching  and  praying  meant,  or 
why  people  needed  to  look  so  solemn  on  that  day. 
She  had  been  stared  at  so  much  at  church,  also,  that 
the  ordeal  had  become  painful.  The  parson  had, 
on  two  occasions,  glared  and  glowered  at  her  while 
he  assured  her  that  her  opinions  and  belief  in  spites 
were  rank  heresy  and  that  she  was  a  wicked  heathen ; 
and,  all  in  all,  religion  was  not  to  her  taste.  With 
these  people  she  was  to  escape  it,  and  instead  of 
being  imprisoned  for  long,  weary  hours  while  being 
stared  at  each  Sunday,  she  was  likely  to  have  per- 
fect freedom  and  a  chance  to  go  with  this  nice  old 
man  on  a  fishing  or  berry-picking  jaunt. 

And  then  Uncle  Jud  was  so  much  like  Old  Cy 
in  ways  and  speech  that  her  heart  was  won.  And 


278  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

besides  these  blessings,  the  old  farm-house,  hidden 
away  between  two  ranges  of  wooded  hills,  seemed 
so  out  of  the  world  and  so  secure  from  observation 
that  she  felt  that  no  one  from  Greenvale  ever  could 
or  would  discover  her.  She  had  meant  to  hide 
herself  from  all  who  knew  her,  had  changed  her 
name  for  that  purpose,  and  here  and  now  it  was 
accomplished. 

That  first  Sunday,  also,  became  a  halcyon  one  for 
her,  for  after  chores,  in  the  performance  of  which 
Chip  made  herself  useful,  Uncle  Jud  took  his  fish- 
pole,  and  giving  her  the  basket  to  carry,  led  the  way 
to  the  brook,  and  for  four  bright  sunny  hours,  Chip 
knew  not  the  lapse  of  time  while  she  watched  the 
leaping,  laughing  stream,  and  her  second  Old  Cy 
pulling  trout  from  each  pool  and  cascade. 

And  so  her  new  life  began. 

But  the  change  was  not  made  without  some  cost 
to  her  feelings,  for  heartstrings  reach  far,  and  Miss 
Phinney  and  her  months  of  patient  teaching  were 
not  forgotten. 

Aunt  Comfort  and  her  benign  face  oft  returned 
to  Chip,  "and  dear  Old  Cy,"  as  she  always  thought 
of  him,  still  oftener.  Ray's  face  also  lingered  in  her 
heart.  Now  and  then  she  caught  herself  humming 
some  darky  song,  and  never  once  did  the  moon 


VERA  RAYMOND  279 

smile  into  this  quiet  vale  that  her  thoughts  did  not 
speed  away  to  that  wildwood  lake,  with  its  rippled 
path  of  silver,  the  dark  bordering  forest,  and  how 
she  wielded  a  paddle  while  her  young  lover  picked 
his  banjo. 

No  word  or  hint  of  all  this  bygone  life  and  romance 
ever  fell  from  her  lips.  It  was  a  page  in  her  memory 
that  must  never  be  turned, — an  idyl  to  be  forgotten, 
—  and  yet  forget  it  she  could  not,  in  spite  of  will  or 
wishes. 

And  now  as  the  summer  days  sped  by,  and  Chip 
helping  Uncle  Jud  in  the  meadows  or  Aunt  Mandy 
about  the  house,  and  winning  love  from  both,  saw 
a  new  realm  open  before  her.  There  was  in  the 
sitting  room  of  this  quaint  home  a  tall  bookcase, 
its  shelves  filled  with  a  motley  collection  of  books: 
works  on  science,  astronomy,  geology,  botany,  and 
the  like;  books  of  travel  and  adventure;  stories  of 
strange  countries  and  people  never  heard  of  by  Chip ; 
and  novels  by  Scott,  Lever,  Cooper,  and  Hardy. 
These  last,  especially  Scott  and  Cooper,  appealed 
most  to  Chip,  and  once  she  began  them,  every  spare 
hour,  and  often  until  long  past  midnight,  she  became 
lost  in  this  new  world. 

"I  know  all  about  how  folks  live  in  the  woods," 
she  said  one  Sunday  to  Uncle  Jud,  when  half  through 


2&D  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

"The  Deerslayer."  "I  was  brought  up  there.  I 
know  how  Injuns  live  and  what  they  believe.  I 
had  an  old  Injun  friend  once.  I've  got  the  mocca- 
sins and  fur  cape  he  gave  me  now.  His  name  was 
Tomah,  'n'  he  believed  in  queer  things  that  some- 
times creep  an'  sometimes  run  faster'n  we  can." 

It  was  her  first  reference  to  her  old  life,  but  once 
begun,  she  never  paused  until  all  her  queer  history 
had  been  related. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tell  it,"  she  explained  in  con- 
clusion, "for  I  don't  want  nobody  to  know  where  I 
came  from,  an'  I  hope  you  won't  tell." 

How  near  she  came  to  disclosing  what  was  of  far 
more  importance  to  herself  and  these  people  than 
old  Tomah's  superstition  she  never  knew,  or  that 
all  that  saved  her  was  her  reference  to  Old  Cy  by 
that  name  only. 

More  than  that,  and  like  Old  Cy  standing  over 
the  cave  where  her  heritage  lay  hid,  she  had  no  sus- 
picion that  this  kindly  old  man,  so  much  like  him 
in  looks  and  speech,  was  his  brother. 

With  the  coming  of  September,  however,  a  visitor 
was  announced.  "Aunt  Abby's  comin'  to  stay 
with  us  a  spell,"  Uncle  Jud  said  that  day;  "she's 
Mandy's  sister,  Abigail  Bemis,  an'  she  lives  at 
Christmas  Cove.  It's  a  shore  town,  'bout  a  hundred 


VERA   RAYMOND  281 

miles  from  here.  She  ain't  much  like  Mandy,"  he 
added  confidentially  to  Chip;  "she's  more  book- 
larned,  so  you'll  have  to  mind  your  />'s  and  ^'s.  If 
ye  like,  ye  can  go  with  me  to  the  station  to  meet  her." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  a  few  days  later,  Chip, 
dressed  in  her  best,  rode  to  the  station  with  Uncle 
Jud  in  the  old  carryall,  and  there  met  this  visitor. 

She  was  not  a  welcome  guest,  so  far  as  Chip  was 
concerned,  wonted  as  she  had  now  become  to  Uncle 
Jud  and  Aunt  Mandy,  whose  speech,  like  her  own, 
was  not  "book-larned,"  and  for  this  reason,  Chip 
felt  afraid  of  her.  So  much  so,  in  fact,  that  for  a 
few  days  she  scarce  dared  speak  at  all. 

Her  timidity  wore  away  in  due  time,  for  Aunt 
Abby  —  a  counterpart  of  her  sister  —  was  in  no 
wise  awe-inspiring.  She  saw  Chip  as  she  was,  and 
soon  felt  an  interest  in  her  and  her  peculiar  history, 
or  what  was  known  of  it.  She  also  noted  Chip's 
interest  in  books,  and  guessing  more  than  she  had 
been  told,  was  not  long  in  forming  correct  con- 
clusions. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  this  runaway 
girl?"  she  said  one  day  to  her  sister,  "keep  her  here 
and  let  her  grow  up  in  ignorance,  or  what?" 

"Wai,  we  ain't  thought  much  about  that,"  re- 
sponded Mandy,  "at  least  not  yet.  She  ain't  got 


282  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

no  relations  to  look  arter  her,  so  far  ez  we  kin  larn. 
She's  company  for  us,  'n'  willin'.  Uncle  Jud  sets 
lots  of  store  by  her.  She  is  with  him  from  morn  till 
night,  and  handy  at  all  sorts  o'  work.  This  is  how 
'tis  with  us  here,  an'  now  what  do  you  say?" 

For  a  moment  Aunt  Abby  meditated.'  "You 
ought  to  do  your  duty  by  her,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and 
she  certainly  needs  more  schooling." 

"  We  can  send  her  down  to  the  Corners  when  school 
begins,  if  you  think  we  orter,"  returned  her  sister, 
timidly;  "but  we  hate  to  lose  her  now.  We've 
kinder  took  to  her,  you  see." 

"I  hardly  think  that  will  do,"  answered  Aunt 
Abby,  knowing  as  she  did  that  the  three  R's  com- 
prised the  full  extent  of  an  education  at  the  Corners. 
"What  she  needs  is  a  chance  to  mingle  with  more 
people  than  she  can  here,  and  learn  the  ways  of  the 
world,  as  well  as  books.  Her  mind  is  bright.  I 
notice  she  is  reading  every  chance  she  can  get,  and 
.you  know  my  ideas  about  education.  For  her  to 
stay  here,  even  with  schooling  at  the  Corners,  is  to 
let  her  grow  up  like  a  hoyden.  Now  what  would 
you  think  if  I  took  her  back  to  Christmas  Cove? 
There  is  a  better  school  there.  She  will  meet  and 
mingle  with  more  people,  and  improve  faster." 

"I   dunno  what   Judson'll  say,"   returned  Aunt 


VERA  RAYMOND  283 

Mandy,  somewhat  sadly.  "He's  got  so  wonted  to 
her,  he'll  be  heart-broke,  I'm  afraid."  And  so  the 
consultation  closed. 

The  matter  did  not  end  here,  for  Aunt  Abby, 
"sot  in  her  way,"  as  Uncle  Jud  had  often  said,  yet 
in  reality  only  advocating  what  she  felt  was  best  for 
this  homeless  waif,  now  began  a  persuasive  campaign. 
She  enlarged  on  Christmas  Cove,  its  excellent  school 
and  capable  master,  its  social  advantages  and  cul- 
tured people,  who  boasted  a  public  library  and  de- 
bating society,  and  especially  its  summer  attractions, 
when  a  few  dozen  city  people  sojourned  there.  Its 
opportunities  for  church -going  also  came  in  for 
praise,  though  if  this  worthy  woman  had  known  how 
Chip  felt  about  that  feature,  it  would  have  been  left 
unmentioned. 

"The  girl  needs  religious  influence  and  contact 
with  believers,  as  well  as  schooling,"  she  said  later 
on  to  Aunt  Mandy,  "and  that  must  be  considered. 
Here  she  can  have  none,  and  will  grow  up  a  heathen. 
I  certainly  think  she  ought  to  go  back  with  me  for  a 
year  or  two,  at  least,  and  then  we  can  decide  what  is 
best." 

"  Thar's  one  thing  ye  ain't  thought  'bout,"  Mandy 
answered,  "an'  that's  her  sense  o'  obligation.  From 
what  she's  told  me,  'twas  that  that  made  her  run 


284  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

away  from  whar  she  was,  'n'  she'd  run  away  from 
here  if  she  didn't  feel  she  was  earnin'  her  keep. 
She's  peculiar  in  that  way,  'n'  can't  stand  feelin' 
she's  dependent.  How  you  goin'  to  get  round  that  ?  " 

"Just  as  you  do,"  returned  Aunt  Abby,  not  at 
all  discouraged.  "We  live  about  as  you  do,  as  you 
know,  only  Mr.  Bernis  has  the  mill;  and  she  can 
help  me  about  the  house,  as  she  does  here." 

But  Chip's  own  consent  to  this  new  plan  was  the 
hardest  to  obtain. 

"I'll  do  just  as  Uncle  Jud  wants  me  to,"  she  re- 
sponded, when  Aunt  Abby  proposed  the  change; 
"but  I'd  hate  to  go  'way  from  here.  It's  all  the  real 
sort  o'  home  I've  ever  known,  and  they've  been  so 
good  to  me  I'll  have  to  cry  when  I  leave  it.  You'd 
let  me  come  here  once  in  a  while,  wouldn't  ye?" 

As  she  seemed  ready  to  cry  at  this  moment,  Aunt 
Abby  wisely  dropped  the  subject  then  and  there; 
in  fact,  she  did  not  allude  to  it  again  in  Chip's  pres- 
ence. 

But  Aunt  Abby  carried  her  point  with  the  others. 
Uncle  Jud  consented  very  reluctantly,  Aunt  Mandy 
also  yielded  after  much  more  persuasion,  and  when 
Aunt  Abby's  visit  terminated,  poor  Chip's  few 
belongings  were  packed  In  a  new  telescope  case; 
she  kissed  Aunt  Mandy,  unable  to  speak,  and  this 


VERA  RAYMOND  285 

tearful  parting  was  repeated  at  the  station  with 
Uncle  Jud.  When  the  train  had  vanished  he  wiped 
his  eyes  on  his  coat  sleeves,  climbed  into  his  old 
carryall,  and  drove  away  disconsolate. 

"  Curis,  curis,  how  a  gal  like  that  'un'll  work  her 
way  into  a  man's  feelin's,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It 
ain't  been  three  months  since  I  picked  her  up,  'n' 
now  her  goin'  away  seems  like  pullin'  my  heart  out." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CHRISTMAS  COVE  had  entered  its  autumn  lethargy 
when  Aunt  Abby  Bemis  and  her  new  protegee  reached 
it.  Captain  Bemis,  who  "never  had  no  say  'bout 
nothin',''  but  who  had  cooked  his  own  meals  un- 
complainingly for  three  weeks,  emerged,  white- 
dusted,  from  the  mill,  to  greet  the  arrivals,  and  Chip 
was  soon  installed  in  a  somewhat  bare  room  over- 
looking the  cove.  Everything  seemed  slightly  chilly 
to  her  here.  This  room,  with  its  four-poster  bed, 
blue-painted  chairs,  light  blue  shades,  and  dark 
blue  straw  matting,  the  leafless  elms  in  front,  the 
breeze  that  swept  in  from  the  sea,  and  even  her  re- 
ception, seemed  cool.  Her  heart  was  not  in  it. 
Try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  yet  feel  one  spark 
of  affection  for  this  "  book-larned  "  Aunt  Abby,  who 
had  already  begun  to  reprove  her  for  lapses  of  speech. 
It  was  all  so  different  from  the  home  life  she  had 
just  left ;  and  as  Chip  had  now  begun  to  notice  and 
feel  trifles,  the  relations  of  the  people  seemed  as 
chilly  as  the  room  to  which  she  was  consigned. 

When  Sunday  came  —  a  sunless  one  with  leaden 
286 


VERA  RAYMOND  287 

sky  and  cold  wind  bearing  the  ocean's  moaning  — 
Chip  felt  herself  back  at  Greenvale  with  its  Sundays, 
for  now  she  was  stared  at  the  moment  she  entered 
the  church.  The  singing  was,  of  course,  of  the  same 
solemn  character,  the  minister's  prayers  even  longer, 
and  the  preaching  as  incomprehensible  as  in  Green- 
vale. 

To  Chip,  doubtless  a  heretic  who  needed  regenera- 
tion, it  seemed  a  melancholy  and  solemn  performance. 
The  sermon  (on  predestination,  with  a  finale  which 
was  a  description  of  the  resurrection  day)  made  her 
feel  creepy,  and  when  the  white-robed  procession 
rising  from  countless  graves  was  touched  upon, 
and  a  pause  came  when  she  could  hear  the  ocean's 
distant  moan  once  more,  it  seemed  that  spites  were 
creeping  and  crawling  all  about  that  dim  room. 

With  her  advent  at  school  Monday  came  some- 
thing of  the  same  trouble  first  met  at  Greenvale, 
for  the  master,  a  weazen,  dried-up  little  old  man, 
who  wore  a  wig  and  seemed  to  exude  rules  and  disci- 
pline, lacked  the  kindly  interest  of  Miss  Phinney. 

Chip,  almost  a  mature  young  lady,  was  aligned 
with  girls  and  boys  of  ten  and  twelve,  and  once  more 
the  same  shame  and  humiliation  had  to  be  endured. 
It  wore  away  in  time,  however,  for  she  had  made 
almost  marvellous  progress  under  Miss  Phinney. 


288  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Her  mind  was  keen  and  quick,  and  once  at  study 
again,  she  astonished  Mr.  Bell,  the  master. 

Something  of  her  old  fearless  self-reliance  now 
came  to  her  aid,  also.  It  had  made  her  dare  sixty 
miles  of  wilderness  alone  and  helpless,  it  had 
spurred  her  to  escape  Greenvale  and  her  sense  of 
being  a  dependent  pauper,  and  now  that  latent  force 
for  good  or  ill  still  nerved  her. 

But  Christmas  Cove  did  not  suit  her.  The  sea 
that  drew  her  eyes  with  its  vastness  seemed  to  awe 
her.  The  great  house,  brown  and  moss-coated, 
where  she  lived,  was  barnlike,  and  never  quite 
warm  enough.  The  long  street  she  traversed  four 
times  daily  was  bleak  and  wind-swept.  Aunt 
Abby  was  austere  and  lacking  in  cordiality;  and 
Sundays  —  well,  Sundays  were  Chip's  one  chief 
abhorrence. 

She  may  be  blamed  for  it,  —  doubtless  will  be,  — 
and  yet  she  never  had  been,  and  it  seemed  never 
would  be,  quite  reconciled  to  Sundays.  At  Tim's 
Place  they  were  unknown.  At  Greenvale  they  had 
been  dreaded,  and  now  at  Christmas  Cove  they 
were  no  less  so. 

At  Uncle  Jud's,  in  Peaceful  Valley,  where  she  had 
found  an  asylum,  loving  care,  and  companionship 
akin  to  her,  Sundays  were  only  half-Sundays  — 


VERA  RAYMOND  289 

days  of  chore-doing,  of  reading,  of  rest,  or  long 
strolls  along  shady  lanes  with  Uncle  Jud,  or  follow- 
ing the  brook  and  watching  him  fish.  It  was  not 
right,  maybe.  It  was  somewhat  of  sacrilege,  per- 
haps, this  lazy,  summer-day-strolling,  flower-picking, 
berry-gathering  way  of  passing  them,  and  yet,  as 
the  months  with  Martin  and  his  party  in  the  wilder- 
ness where  Sunday  could  not  be  observed,  and  those 
with  Uncle  Jud  were  all  that  Chip  had  really  en- 
joyed, she  must  not  be  blamed. 

Another  influence  —  an  insidious  heart-hunger  she 
could  not  put  away  —  now  added  to  her  loneliness 
in  the  new  life.  It  carried  her  thoughts  back  to  the 
rippled,  moonlit  lake,  where  Ray  had  picked  his 
banjo  and  sung  to  her ;  even  back  to  that  first  night 
by  the  camp-fire  when  she  had  watched  and  listened 
to  him  in  rapt  admiration.  It  thrilled  her  as  naught 
else  could  when  she  recalled  the  few  moments  at  the 
lake  when,  unconscious  of  the  need  of  restraint,  she 
had  let  him  caress  her. 

Then  the  long  days  of  watching  for  his  return 
were  lived  over,  and  the  one  almost  ecstatic  moment 
when  he  had  leaped  from  the  stage  and  over  the  wall, 
with  no  one  in  sight,  while  he  held  her  in  his 
arms. 

And  then  —  and  this  hurt  the  most  —  that  last 


2QO  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

evening  before  they  were  to  part  again,  when  beside 
the  firefly-lit  mill-pond  he  had  the  chance  to  say  so 
much,  and  said  —  nothing ! 

It  was  all  a  bitter-sweet  memory,  which  she  tried 
to  put  away  forever  the  night  she  left  Greenvale. 
She  was  now  Vera  Raymond.  No  one  could  trace 
her;  and  yet,  so  at  odds  were  her  will  and  heart, 
there  still  lingered  the  faint  hope  that  Ray  would 
sometime  and  somehow  find  her  out. 

And  so,  studying  faithfully,  often  lonesome,  now 
and  then  longing  for  the  bygone  days  with  Ray  and 
Old  Cy,  and  always  hoping  that  she  might  sometime 
return  to  Peaceful  Valley,  Chip  passed  the  winter 
at  Christmas  Cove. 

Something  of  success  came  to  her  through  it  all. 
She  reached  and  retained  head  positions  in  her 
classes.  A  word  of  praise  came  occasionally  from 
Mr.  Bell.  Aunt  Abby  grew  less  austere  and  seemed 
to  have  a  little  pride  in  her.  She  became  acquainted 
with  other  people  and  in  touch  with  young  folks,  was 
invited  to  parties  and  sleigh-rides.  The  vernacular 
of  Tim's  Place  left  her,  and  even  Sundays  were  less 
a  torture,  in  fact,  almost  pleasant,  for  then  she  saw 
most  of  the  young  folks  she  mingled  with,  and  now 
and  then  exchanged  a  bit  of  gossip. 

Her  own  dress  became  of  more  interest  to  her. 


VERA  RAYMOND  29! 

Aunt  Abby,  fortunately  for  Chip,  felt  desirous  that 
her  ward  should  appear  well,  and  Chip,  thus  edu- 
cated and  polished  in  village  life,  to  a  degree,  at  least, 
fulfilled  Aunt  Abby's  hopes. 

Another  success  also  came  to  her,  for  handsome 
as  she  undeniably  was,  with  her  big,  appealing 
eyes,  her  splendid  black  hair,  and  well-rounded 
form,  the  young  men  began  to  seek  her.  One 
became  persistent,  and  when  spring  had  unlocked 
the  long,  curved  bay  once  more,  Chip  had  be- 
come almost  a  leader  in  the  little  circle  of  young 
people. 

Her  life  with  those  who  had  taken  her  in  charge 
also  became  more  harmonious.  In  fact,  something 
of  affection  began  to  leaven  it,  for  the  reason  that 
never  once  had  Aunt  Abby  questioned  Chip  as  to 
her  past.  Aunt  Mandy  and  Uncle  Jud  had  both 
cautioned  her  as  to  its  unwisdom,  and  she  was  broad 
and  charitable  enough  to  let  it  remain  a  closed  book 
until  such  time  as  Chip  was  willing  to  open  it;  and 
for  this,  more  than  all  else  that  she  received,  Chip 
felt  grateful.  But  one  day  it  came  out  —  or  at  least 
a  portion  of  it. 

"I  suppose  you  have  often  wondered  where  I  was 
born,  and  who  my  parents  were,"  Chip  said,  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  when  she  and  Aunt  Abby  were 


2Q  2  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

alone,  "  and  I  want  to  thank  you  for  never,  never 
asking."  And  then,  omitting  much,  she  briefly  out- 
lined her  history. 

"I  was  born  close  to  the  wilderness,"  she  said, 
"and  my  mother  died  when  I  was  about  eight  years 
old.  Then  my  father  took  me  into  the  woods,  where 
I  worked  at  a  kind  of  a  boarding  house  for  lumber- 
men. I  ran  away  from  that  when  I  was  about  six- 
teen. I  had  to ;  the  reasons  I  don't  want  to  tell.  I 
found  some  people  camping  in  the  woods  when  I'd 
been  gone  three  days  and  'most  starved.  They  felt 
pity  for  me,  I  guess,  and  took  care  of  me.  I  stayed 
at  their  camp  that  summer,  and  then  they  fetched 
me  home  with  them  and  I  was  sent  to  school.  Some- 
body said  something  to  me  there,  somebody  who 
hated  me.  She  had  been  pestering  me  all  the  time, 
and  I  ran  away.  Uncle  Jud  found  me  and  took 
care  of  me  until  you  came,  and  that's  all  I  want  to 
tell.  I  could  tell  a  lot  more,  but  I  don't  ever  want 
these  people  to  find  me  or  take  me  back  where  they 
live,  and  that's  why  I  don't  tell  where  I  came  from. 
Then  I  felt  I  was  so  dependent  on  them  —  I  was 
twitted  of  it  —  that  it's  another  reason  why  I  ran 
away.  I  wouldn't  have  stayed  with  Uncle  Jud 
more  than  over  night  except  I  had  a  chance  to 
work  and  earn  my  board." 


VERA  RAYMOND  293 

"  But  wasn't  it  unkind  of  you  —  isn't  it  now  — 
not  to  let  these  people  know  you  are  alive  ?  "  an- 
swered Aunt  Abby.  "They  were  certainly  good 
to  you." 

"I  know  that  they  were,"  returned  Chip,  some- 
what contritely;  "but  I  couldn't  stand  being  de- 
pendent on  them  any  longer.  If  they  found  where  I 
was,  they'd  come  and  fetch  me  back ;  and  I'd  feel  so 
ashamed  I  couldn't  look  'em  in  the  face.  I'd  rather 
they'd  think  I  was  dead." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  best  you  do  not,"  returned 
Aunt  Abby,  sighing;  "but  years  of  doubt,  and  not 
knowing  whether  some  one  we  care  for  is  dead  or 
alive,  are  hard  to  bear.  And  now  that  you  have 
told  me  some  of  your  history,  I  will  tell  you  a  life- 
long case  of  not  knowing  some  one's  fate.  Many 
years  ago  my  sister  and  myself,  who  were  born  here, 
became  acquainted  with  two  young  men,  sailor  boys 
from  Bayport,  named  Cyrus  and  Judson  Walker. 
Cyrus  became  attached  to  me  and  we  were  engaged 
to  marry.  It  never  came  to  pass,  however,  for  the 
ship  that  Judson  was  captain  of,  with  Cyrus  as  first 
mate,  foundered  at  sea.  All  hands  took  to  the  two 
boats.  The  one  Judson  was  in  was  picked  up,  but 
the  other  was  never  heard  of  afterward.  In  due 
time  Judson  and  my  sister  Amanda  married.  He 


294  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

gave  up  a  sailor's  life,  and  they  settled  down  where 
they  now  live.  I  waited  many  years,  vainly  hoping 
for  my  sweetheart's  return,  and  finally,  realizing  that 
he  must  be  dead,  married  Captain  Bemis.  That 
all  happened  so  long  ago  that  I  do  not  care  to  count 
the  years;  and  yet  all  through  them  has  lingered 
that  pitiful  thread  of  doubt  and  uncertainty,  that 
vain  hope  that  somehow  and  someway  Cyrus  may 
have  escaped  death  and  may  return.  I  know  it  will 
never  happen.  I  know  he  is  dead;  and  yet  I  can- 
not put  away  that  faint  hope  and  quite  believe  it  is 
so,  and  never  shall  so  long  as  I  live.  Now  you  have 
left  those  who  must  have  cared  something  for  you 
in  much  the  same  pitiful  state  of  doubt,  and  it  is  not 
right." 

For  one  moment  something  almost  akin  to  horror 
flashed  over  Chip. 

"And  was  he  called  —  was  he  never  —  I  mean 
this  brother,  ever  heard  from  ? "  she  stammered, 
recovering  herself  in  time. 

"Why,  no,"  answered  Aunt  Abby,  looking  at  her 
curiously,  "of  course  not.  Why,  what  ails  you? 
You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost." 

"Oh,  nothing,"  returned  Chip,  now  more  com- 
posed; "only  the  story  and  how  strange  it  was." 

It  ended   the  conversation,   for   Chip,   so   over- 


VERA  RAYMOND  295 

whelmed  by  the  flood  of  possibilities  contained  in 
this  story,  dared  not  trust  herself  longer  with  Aunt 
Abby,  and  soon  escaped  to  her  room. 

And  now  circumstances  came  trooping  upon  her: 
the  shipwreck,  which  she  had  heard  Old  Cy  describe 
so  often  ;  the  name  she  knew  was  really  his ;  the 
almost  startling  resemblance  to  Uncle  Jud  in  speech, 
ways,  and  opinions ;  and  countless  other  proofs. 
Surely  it  must  be  so.  Surely  Old  Cy,  of  charming 
memory,  and  Uncle  Jud  no  less  so,  must  be  brothers, 
and  now  it  was  in  her  power  to  —  and  then  she 
paused,  shocked  at  the  position  she  faced. 

She  was  now  known  as  Vera  Raymond,  and  re- 
spected; she  had  cut  loose  forever  from  the  old 
shame  of  an  outlaw's  child;  of  a  wretched  drudge 
at  Tim's  Place;  of  being  sold  as  a  slave;  and  all 
that  now  made  her  blush. 

And  then  Ray ! 

Full  well  she  knew  now  what  must  have  been  in 
his  heart  that  last  evening  and  why  he  acted  as 
he  did.  Hannah  had  told  her  the  bitter  truth,  as 
she  had  since  realized.  Ray  had  been  assured  that 
she  was  an  outcast,  and  despicable  in  the  sight  of 
Green  vale.  He  dared  not  say  "I  love  you;  be  my 
wife."  Instead,  he  had  been  hurried  away  to  keep 
them  apart ;  and  as  all  this  dire  flood  of  shame  that 


296  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

had  driven  her  from  Greenvale  surged  in  her  heart, 
the  bitter  tears  came. 

In  calmer  moments,  and  when  the  heart-hunger 
controlled,  she  had  hoped  he  might  some  day  find 
her  and  some  day  say,  "I  love  you."  But  now,  so 
soon,  to  make  herself  known,  to  tell  who  she  was,  to 
admit  to  these  new  friends  that  she  was  Chip  Mc- 
Guire  with  all  that  went  with  it,  to  have  to  face  and 
live  down  that  shame,  to  admit  that  she  had  taken 
Ray's  first  name  for  her  own  —  no,  no,  a  thousand 
times  no ! 

But  what  of  Old  Cy  and  Uncle  Jud,  and  their  life- 
long separation? 

Truly  her  footsteps  had  led  her  to  a  parting  of  the 
ways,  one  sign-board  lettered  "Duty  and  Shame," 
the  other  a  blank. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"  Good  luck  comes  now  'n'  then ;  bad  luck  drops  'round 
frequently."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

WHEN  Old  Cy  emerged  from  the  cave,  his  face 
glorified  and  heart  throbbing  with  the  blessings  now 
his  to  give  Chip,  he  looked  about  with  almost  fear. 
The  two  abandoned  canoes  and  the  trusty  rifle  had 
seemed  an  assurance  of  tragic  import,  and  yet  no 
proof  of  this  outlaw's  death.  That  this  cave  had 
been  his  lair,  could  not  be  doubted ;  and  so  momen- 
tous was  this  discovery,  and  so  anxious  was  Old  Cy 
to  rescue  this  fortune,  that  he  trembled  with  a  sudden 
dread. 

But  no  sign  of  human  presence  met  his  sweeping 
look. 

The  lake  still  rippled  and  smiled  in  the  sunlight. 
Two  deer,  a  buck  and  doe,  were  feeding  on  the  rush- 
grown  shore  just  across,  while  at  his  feet  that  rusty 
rifle  still  uttered  its  fatal  message. 

Once  more  Old  Cy  glanced  all  about,  and  then 
entered  the  cave  again.  Here,  in  the  dim  light  and 
with  trembling  hands,  he  filled  the  cans  once  more, 

297 


298  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

and  almost  staggering,  so  faint  was  he  from  excite- 
ment, he  hurried  to  the  canoe,  and  packing  them  in 
its  bow,  covered  the  precious  cargo  with  his  blanket. 

Then  he  ran  like  a  deer  back  to  the  cave,  closed 
it  with  the  slab,  grasped  his  rifle,  and  not  even  look- 
ing at  the  rusty  one,  bounded  down  the  path  to  his 
canoe  again,  launched  it,  and  pushed  off. 

Never  before  had  it  seemed  so  frail  a  craft.  And 
now,  as  he  swung  its  prow  around  toward  the  outlet, 
a  curious  object  met  his  eyes. 

Far  up  the  lake,  and  where  no  ripple  concealed  it, 
lay  what  looked  like  a  floating  log,  clasped  by  a 
human  arm. 

What  intuition  led  him  hither,  Old  Cy  never  could 
explain,  for  escape  from  the  lake  was  now  his  sole 
thought.  And  yet,  with  one  sweep  of  his  paddle,  he 
turned  his  canoe  and  sped  across  the  lake.  And 
now,  as  he  neared  this  object,  it  slowly  outlined  itself, 
and  he  saw  a  grewsome  sight,  —  two  bloated  corpses 
grasping  one  another  as  if  in  a  death  grapple.  One 
had  hair  of  bronze  red,  the  other  a  hideously  scarred 
face  with  lips  drawn  and  teeth  exposed. 

Hate,  Horror,  and  Death  personified. 

Only  for  a  moment  did  Old  Cy  glance  at  this 
ghastly  sight,  and  then  he  turned  again  and  sped 
back  across  the  lake. 


VERA  RAYMOND  299 

The  bright  sun  still  smiled  calm  and  serene,  the 
morning  breeze  still  kissed  the  blue  water,  the  two 
deer  still  watched  him  with  curious  eyes;  but  he 
saw  them  not  —  only  the  winsome  face  and  appeal- 
ing eyes  of  Chip  as  he  last  beheld  them. 

And  now  in  the  prow  of  his  canoe  lay  her  fortune, 
her  heritage,  which  was,  after  all,  but  scant  return 
for  all  the  shame  and  stigma  so  far  meted  out 
to  her. 

It  was  almost  sunset  ere  Old  Cy,  his  nerves  still 
quivering  and  wearied  as  never  before,  crossed  the 
little  lake  and  breathed  a  sigh  of  heart-felt  gratitude 
as  he  drew  his  canoe  out  on  the  sandy  shore  near  the 
ice-house.  No  one  was  in  sight,  nor  likely  to  be.  A 
thin  column  of  smoke  rising  from  the  cabin  showed 
that  the  hermit  was  still  on  earth,  and  now  for  the 
first  time,  Old  Cy  sat  down  and  considered  his  plans 
for  the  near  future. 

First  and  foremost,  not  a  soul,  not  even  his  old 
trusted  companion  here,  not  even  Martin,  or  Angie, 
and  certainly  not  Ray,  must  learn  what  had  now 
come  into  his  possession.  Neither  must  his  journey 
to  this  far-off  lake  or  aught  he  had  learned  there  be 
disclosed. 

But  how  was  he  to  escape  from  the  woods  and 
these  people,  soon  to  arrive  for  their  summer  sojourn  ? 


300  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

And  what  if  Chip  herself  should  come?  Two  con- 
clusions forced  themselves  upon  him  now:  first,  he 
must  so  conceal  the  fortune  that  none  of  these  friends 
even  could  suspect  its  presence;  next,  he  must  by 
some  pretext  leave  here  as  soon  as  Martin  and  his 
party  arrived,  and  cease  not  his  watchful  care  until 
Chip's  heritage  was  safe  in  some  bank  in  her 
name. 

And  now,  with  so  much  of  his  future  moves  de- 
cided upon,  he  hurried  to  the  cabin,  greeted  Amzi, 
urged  him  to  hasten  supper,  and,  securing  a  shovel, 
returned  to  his  canoe. 

In  five  minutes  the  cans  of  gold  were  buried  deep 
in  the  sand,  not  two  feet  from  where  the  half-breed 
had  once  landed,  and  upon  Old  Cy's  person  the  bills 
found  concealment.  How  much  it  all  amounted  to, 
he  had  not  even  guessed,  nor  scarce  thought.  To 
secure  it  and  bear  it  safely  away  from  this  now 
almost  accursed  lake  had  been  his  sole  thought, 
and  must  be  until  locks  and  bolts  could  guard 
it  better.  That  night  Old  Cy  hardly  slept  a 
moment. 

And  now  began  days  of  waiting  and  watching,  the 
slow  course  of  which  he  had  never  before  known. 
He  dared  not  leave  the  cabin  except  to  fish  close  by 
and  within  sight  of  the  one  focal  point  of  his  interest. 


VERA  RAYMOND  30! 

Each  midday,  for  not  sooner  would  the  expected 
ones  be  apt  to  arrive,  he  began  to  watch  the  lake's 
outlet,  and  ceased  not  this  vigil  until  darkness  came. 
A  dozen  times  a  day  he  covertly  visited  the  ice- 
house to  be  certain  no  alien  footprints  had  been 
stamped  upon  the  sand  near  his  buried  treasure, 
and  had  the  hermit  been  an  alert  and  normal  man,  he 
must  have  noticed  Old  Cy's  strange  conduct. 

This  burden  of  care  also  began  to  haunt  his  sleep, 
and  in  it  he  saw  the  open  cave,  and  himself  watched 
by  vicious,  leering  faces.  Once  he  saw  those  ghastly 
corpses  still  clasped  together,  but  hovering  over  him, 
and  then  awoke  with  a  sense  of  horror. 

A  worse  dream  than  this  came  later,  for  in  it  he 
saw  the  half-breed  creeping  along  the  lake's  shore, 
and  then,  stooping  where  the  gold  was  buried,  he 
began  to  dig,  at  which  Old  Cy  sprang  from  his  bed 
in  sudden  terror. 

"J'll  go  crazy  if  I  don't  git  rid  o'  that  money  'fore 
long,"  he  said  to  himself ;  and  the  next  day  another 
place  of  concealment  occurred  to  him. 

There  was,  beneath  the  new  cabin,  a  small  cellar 
entered  through  a  trap-door.  It  was  some  ten  feet 
square,  and  had  been  used  to  store  potatoes,  pork, 
and  the  like.  To  carry  out  his  new  plan,  which  was 
to  hide  the  gold  in  this  cellar,  it  became  necessary  to 


302  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

keep  Amzi  out  of  sight  until  its  transfer  was  made. 
That  was  an  easy  task,  for  Amzi,  docile  as  a  child,, 
was  sent  out  on  the  lake  to  fish,  and  then  Old  Cy, 
hastily  constructing  a  bag  of  deerskin,  hurried  to 
the  beach,  dug  up  the  treasure,  poured  the  glittering 
coin  into  this  bag,  hid  it  in  the  cellar,  nailed  the  trap- 
door down,  and  that  night  slept  better. 

Two  days  after,  just  as  the  sun  was  nearing  the 
mountain  top,  Martin,  Angie,  Levi,  and  Ray  entered 
the  lake. 

How  grateful  both  Old  Cy  and  Amzi  were  for  their 
arrival,  how  eagerly  they  grasped  hands  with  them  at 
the  landing,  and  how  like  two  boys  Martin  and  Ray 
behaved  needs  no  description. 

All  that  had  happened  in  Greenvale  was  soon 
told.  Chip's  conduct  and  progress  were  related  by 
Angie.  Ray's  plans  to  remain  here  another  winter 
were  disclosed  by  him ;  and  then,  when  the  cheerful 
party  had  gathered  about  the  evening  fire,  Martin 
touched  upon  another  matter. 

"I  met  Hersey  as  we  were  coming  in,"  he  said, 
"and  he  says  that  neither  McGuire  nor  the  half-breed 
has  been  seen  or  heard  of  since  early  last  fall. 
Hersey  came  in  early  this  spring  with  one  of  his 
deputies;  they  visited  a  half-dozen  lumber  camps, 
called  twice  at  Tim's  Place,  and  even  went  over  to- 


VERA  RAYMOND  303 

Pete's  cabin  on  the  Fox  Hole,  but  nowhere  could  they 
learn  anything  of  these  two  men.  More  than  that,  no 
canoe  was  found  at  Pete's  hut,  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  occupation  at  all  this  past  winter.  Nothing  could 
be  learned  from  Tim,  either,  although  not  much  was 
expected  from  that  source.  It  is  all  a  most  mys- 
terious disappearance,  and  the  last  that  we  can  learn 
of  Pete  was  his  arrival  and  departure  from  Tim's 
Place  after  we  rescued  Chip." 

"I  think  both  on  'em  has  concluded  this  section 
was  gittin'  too  warm  for  'em,"  remarked  Levi,  "an' 
they've  lit  out." 

"It's  good  riddance  if  they  have,"  answered  Old 
Cy,  "an'  I'm  sartin  none  on  us'll  ever  set  eyes  on 
'em  agin." 

And  Old  Cy  spoke  the  truth,  for  none  of  this  party 
ever  did.  In  fact,  no  human  being,  except  himself 
and  Martin,  ever  learned  the  secret  that  this  moun- 
tain-hid lake  could  tell. 

But  another  matter  now  began  to  interest  Old  Cy 
—  how  Ray  and  Chip  stood  in  their  mutual  feelings. 
That  all  was  not  as  he  wished,  Old  Cy  soon  guessed 
from  Ray's  face  and  actions,  and  he  was  not  long 
in  verifying  it. 

"Wai,  how'd  ye  find  the  gal?"  he  said  to  Ray 
when  the  chance  came.  "Was  she  glad  to  see  ye?" 


304  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Ray,  looking  away,  "she 
appeared  to  be.  I  wasn't  in  Greenvale  but  two 
weeks,  you  know." 

"Saw  her  'most  every  evenin'  durin'  that  time,  I 
s'pose?" 

"No,  not  every  one,"  returned  Ray,  vaguely; 
"her  school  hadn't  closed  when  I  got  home,  and  she 
studied  nights,  you  see." 

Old  Cy  watched  Ray's  face  for  a  moment. 

"I  ain't  pryin'  into  yer  love  matters,"  he  said  at 
last,  "but  as  I'm  on  your  side,  I'd  sorter  like  to  know 
how  it's  progressin'.  Wa'n't  thar  nothin'  said  'tween 
ye  —  no  sort  o'  promise,  'fore  ye  come  'way?" 

"No,  nothing  of  that  sort,"  answered  Ray,  looking 
confused,  "though  we  parted  good  friends,  and  she 
sent  her  love  to  you.  I'm  afraid  Chip  don't  quite 
like  Greenvale." 

Old  Cy  made  no  answer,  though  a  smothered 
"hum,  ha"  escaped  him  at  the  disclosure  of  what  he 
feared. 

"I  wish  ye'd  sorter  clinched  matters  'fore  ye  left," 
he  said,  after  a  pause;  "that  is,  if  ye're  callatin'  to 
be  here  'nother  winter.  It's  'most  too  long  to  keep 
a  gal  guessin' ;  'sides,  'tain't  right." 

Ray,  however,  made  no  defence,  in  fact,  seemed 
guilty  and  confused,  so  Old  Cy  said  no  more. 


VERA  RAYMOND  305 

A  few  days  later  he  made  a  proposal  that  aston- 
ished Martin. 

"I've  been  here  now  'bout  two  years,"  he  said, 
"an'  I'm  gittin'  sorter  oneasy.  I  callate  ye  kin 
spare  me  a  couple  o'  weeks." 

No  intimation  of  his  real  errand  escaped  him,  and 
so  adroitly  had  he  laid  his  plans  and  timed  his  move- 
ments, that  when  his  canoe  was  packed  and  he  bade 
them  good-bye,  no  one  suspected  how  valuable  a 
cargo  it  carried. 

But  Old  Cy  was  more  than  "sorter  oneasy,"  for 
the  only  spot  where  he  dared  close  his  eyes  in  sleep 
during  that  three  days'  journey  out  of  the  wilderness 
was  in  his  canoe,  with  his  head  pillowed  on  that 
precious  gold. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"  A  miser  was  created  to  prove  how  little  real  comfort  kin 
be  got  out  o'  money."  —  OLD  Cv  WALKER. 

WHEN  Old  Cy  joined  the  little  party  at  the  lake 
again,  he  seemed  to  have  aged  years.  His  sunny 
smile  was  gone.  He  looked  weary,  worn,  and 
disconsolate. 

"Chip's  run  away  from  Greenvale, "  he  said 
simply,  "an'  nobody  can  find  hide  nor  hair  on  her. 
They've  follered  the  roads  for  miles  in  every  direc- 
tion. Nobody  can  be  found  that's  seen  anybody 
like  her  'n'  they've  even  dragged  the  mill-pond. 
She  left  a  note  chargin'  it  to  that  durn  fool,  Hannah, 
and  things  she  said,  which  I  guess  was  true.  I'd 
like  to  duck  her  in  the  hoss-pond ! " 

Such  news  was  like  a  bombshell  in  the  camp, 
or  if  not,  what  soon  followed  was,  for  after  a  few 
days  Old  Cy  made  another  announcement  which 
upset  the  entire  party. 

"I  think  I'd  best  go  back  to  Greenvale,"  he 
said,  "an'  begin  a  sarch  for  that  gal.  I  ain't  got 
nobody  in  the  world  that  needs  me  so  much,  or  I 

306 


VERA  RAYMOND  307 

•••. 

them.  I'm  a  sorter  outcast  myself,  ez  you  folks 
know.  That  little  gal  hez  crept  into  my  heart  so, 
I  can't  take  no  more  comfort  here.  Amzi  don't 
need  me  so  much  as  I  need  her,  'n'  I've  made  up 
my  mind  I'll  start  trampin'  till  I  find  her.  I've 
a  notion,  too,  she'll  head  for  the  wilderness  ag'in, 
'n'  I'm  most  sartin  she'll  fetch  up  whar  her  mother 
was  buried.  I  watched  that  gal  middlin'  clus  all 
last  summer.  She's  true  blue  'n'  good  grit.  She 
won't  do  no  fool  thing,  like  makin'  'way  with  her- 
self, 'n'  I'll  find  her  somewhar  arnin'  her  own 
livin'  if  I  live  long  'nuff.  From  the  note  she  left, 
I  know  that  was  in  her  mind." 

Martin  realized  that  there  was  no  use  in  trying 
to  change  Old  Cy's  intent  —  in  fact,  had  no  heart 
to  do  so,  for  he  too  felt  much  the  same  toward 
Chip. 

"I'll  give  you  all  the  funds  you  need,  old 
friend,"  he  made  answer,  "and  wish  you  God- 
speed on  your  mission.  I'll  do  more  than  that 
even.  I'll  pay  some  one  to  watch  at  Grindstone 
for  the  next  year,  so  if  Chip  reaches  there,  we 
can  learn  it." 

That  night  he  held  a  consultation  with  his 
wife. 

"I  suspect  we  are  somewhat  to  blame  for  this 


308  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

unfortunate  happening,"  he  said  to  her,  "or,  at 
least,  some  thoughtless  admissions  you  may  have 
made  led  up  to  it.  It's  a  matter  we  are  responsible 
for,  or  I  feel  so,  anyway.  I  think  as  Old  Cy  does, 
that  this  girl  must  be  found  if  money  can  do  it, 
and  I  propose  that  we  break  camp  and  return  to 
Greenvale.  If  Amzi  can't  be  coaxed  to  go  along, 
I  must  leave  Levi  with  him.  No  power  on  earth 
can  keep  Old  Cy  here  any  longer." 

But  the  old  hermit  had  changed  somewhat 
since  that  night  he  broke  away  and  returned  to 
this  camp,  and  when  the  alternative  of  remaining 
here  alone,  or  going  out  with  them  all,  was  presented, 
he  soon  yielded. 

"If  Cyrus  is  goin',  I'll  have  to,"  he  said.  "I'd 
be  lonesome  without  him."  And  to  this  assertion 
he  adhered. 

Ray,  however,  was  the  most  dejected  and  un- 
happy one  now  here,  though  fortunately  Old  Cy 
was  the  only  one  who  understood  why,  and  he 
kept  silent. 

Old  Cy's  defection  had  influenced  all  alike,  and 
wood  life  was  no  longer  attractive.  It  was  a  pity, 
in  a  way,  for  no  more  charming  spot  than  this 
sequestered  lake  could  be  found.  The  trout  leap- 
ing or  breaking  its  glassy  surface  night  and  morn- 


VERA   RAYMOND  309 

ing  seemed  to  almost  urge  an  angler ;  not  an 
hour  in  all  the  day  but  two  to  a  dozen  deer  might 
be  seen  along  its  shore,  and  blueberries  were  ripen- 
ing over  in  the  "blow  down."  Amzi's  garden, 
now  doubled  in  size,  was  well  along,  and  it  seemed 
a  sin  to  leave  so  many  attractions. 

But  Martin  had  lost  heart  for  these  allurements. 
The  thought  of  poor,  homeless  Chip  begging  her 
way  somewhere,  spoiled  it  all.  Conscious  that 
her  own  neglect  might  have  invited  this  calamity, 
Angie  was  almost  heart-broken,  and  it  was  a  sad- 
dened party  that  closed  and  barred  the  new  cabin 
and  left  this  rippled  lake  one  morning. 

They  were  even  more  sad  when  Aunt  Comfort 
showed  them  Chip's  message,  and  Angie  read  it 
with  brimming  eyes. 

And  now  came  Old  Cy's  departure,  on  a  quest 
as  hopeless  as  that  of  the  Wandering  Jew  and  as 
pathetic  as  the  Ancient  Mariner's. 

But  the  climax  was  reached  when  Old  Cy  gave 
Martin  his  parting  message  and  charge:  — 

"Here's  a  bank  book,"  he  said,  "that  calls  fer 
'bout  sixty  thousand  dollars.  It's  the  savin's  o' 
McGuire,  'n'  belongs  to  Chip.  I  found  the  cave 
whar  'twas  hid.  I  found  McGuire  'n'  the  half- 
breed,  both  dead  'n'  floatin'  in  the  lake  clus  by, 


310  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

an'  'twas  to  keer  fer  this  money  I  quit  ye  three 
weeks  ago. 

"If  I  never  come  back  here,  —  an'  I  never  shall 
'thout  I  find  Chip,  —  keep  it  fer  her.  Sometime  she 
may  show  up.  If  ever  she  does,  tell  her  Old  Cy 
did  all  he  could  fer  her." 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

"  Those  who  hev  nothin'  but  a  stiddy  faith  the  Lord'll  pro- 
vide, never  git  fat."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

LIFE  at  Peaceful  Valley  and  the  home  of  Judson 
Walker  fell  into  its  usual  monotony  after  Chip's 
departure. 

Each  day  Uncle  Jud  went  about  his  chores  and 
his  crop-gathering  and  watched  the  leaves  grow 
scarlet,  then  brown,  and  finally  go  eddying  up  and 
down  the  valley,  or  heap  themselves  into  every 
nook  and  cranny  for  final  sleep. 

Existence  had  become  something  like  this  to 
him,  but  he  could  no  longer  anticipate  a  vernal 
budding  forth  as  the  leaves  came,  but  only  the 
sear  and  autumn  for  himself,  with  the  small  and 
sadly  neglected  churchyard  at  the  Corners  for  its 
ending. 

Snow  came  and  piled  itself  into  fantastic  drifts. 
The  stream's  summer  chatter  was  hushed.  The 
cows,  chickens,  and  his  horse,  with  wood-cutting, 
became  his  sole  care.  Once  a  week  he  journeyed 
to  the  Corners  for  his  weekly  paper  and  Mandy's 

3" 


312  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

errands,  always  hoping  for  a  message  from  Chip. 
Now  and  then  one  came,  a  little  missive  in  angular 
chirography,  telling  how  she  longed  to  return  to 
them,  which  they  read  and  reread  by  candle- 
light. 

Somehow  this  strange  wanderer,  this  unac- 
counted-for waif,  had  crept  into  his  life  and  love 
as  a  flower  would,  and  "Pattycake,"  as  he  had 
named  her,  with  her  appealing  eyes  and  odd  ways, 
was  never  out  of  his  thoughts. 

And  so  the  winter  dragged  its  slow,  chill  course. 
Spring  finally  unlocked  the  brook  once  more,  the 
apple  and  cherry  blossoms  came,  the  robins  began 
nest-building,  and  one  day  Uncle  Jud  returned 
from  the  corner  with  a  glad  smile  on  his  face. 

"Pattycake's  school's  goin'  to  close  in  a  couple 
o'  weeks  more,  'n'  then  she's  comin'  home,"  he 
announced,  and  Aunt  Mandy,  her  face  beaming, 
made  haste  to  wipe  her  "specs"  and  read  the 
joyous  tidings. 

For  a  few  days  Uncle  Jud  acted  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten something  and  knew  not  where  to  look  for 
it.  He  lingered  about  the  house  when  he  would 
naturally  be  at  work.  He  peered  into  one  room 
and  then  another,  in  an  abstracted  way,  and  finally 
Aunt  Mandy  caught  him  in  the  keeping  room, 


VERA  RAYMOND  313 

with  one  curtain  raised,  —  a  thing  unheard  of,  — 
seated  in  one  of  the  haircloth  chairs  and  looking 
around. 

"Mandy,"  he  said,  as  she  entered,  "do  you 
know,  I  think  them  picturs  we've  had  hangin' 
here  nigh  on  to  forty  year  is  homely  'nuff  to  stop 
a  horse,  V  they  make  me  feel  like  I'd  been  to  a 
funeral.  Thar's  that  'Death  Bed  o'  Dan'l  Web- 
ster,' an'  '  Death  o'  Montcalm,'  'specially.  I  jest 
can't  stand  'em  no  longer,  an'  'The  Father  o'  his 
Country.'  I'm  gittin'  tired  o'  that,  'n'  the  smirk 
he's  got  on  his  face.  I  feel  jest  as  though  I'd 
like  to  throw  a  stun  at  him  this  minute.  You 
may  feel  sot  on  them  picturs,  but  I'd  like  to  chuck 
the  hull  kit  'n'  boodle  into  the  cow  shed.  An' 
them  winder  curtains,"  he  continued,  looking 
around,  "things  so  blue  they  make  me  shiver, 
an'  this  carpet  with  the  figgers  o'  green  and  yaller 
birds,  it  sorter  stuns  me. 

"Now  Pattycake's  comin'  purty  soon.  She 
must  'a'  seen  more  cheerful  keepin'  rooms'n  ourn, 
'n'  I'm  callatin'  we'd  best  rip  this  'un  all  up  an' 
fix  it  new.  Then  thar's  the  front  chamber  —  in 
fact,  both  on  'em  —  with  the  yaller  spindle  beds 
'n'  blue  curtains,  an'  only  a  square  of  rag  carpet 
front  o'  the  dressers.  [Say,  Mandy,"  he  continued, 


314  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

looking  around  once  more,  "how'd  we  ever  happen 
to  git  so  many  blue  curtains  ?  " 

His  discontent  with  their  home  now  took  shape 
in  vigorous  action,  and  Aunt  Mandy  came  to  share 
it.  Trip  after  trip  to  the  Riggsville  store  was  made. 
Two  new  chamber  sets  and  rolls  of  carpeting 
arrived  at  the  station  six  miles  away,  and  came 
up  the  valley.  A  paper-hanger  was  engaged  and 
kept  busy  for  ten  days.  The  death-bed  pictures 
were  literally  kicked  into  the  cow  shed,  and  in 
three  weeks  four  rooms  had  been  so  reconstructed 
and  fitted  anew  that  no  one  would  recognize  them. 

Meanwhile  Uncle  Jud  had  utterly  neglected 
his  "craps,"  while  he  worked  around  the  house. 
The  wide  lawn  had  been  clipped  close.  A  new 
picket  fence,  painted  white,  replaced  the  leaning, 
zigzag  one  around  the  garden.  Weeds  and  brush 
disappeared,  and  only  Aunt  Mandy's  protest 
saved  the  picturesque  brown  house  from  a  coat 
of  paint. 

And  then  "Pattycake"   arrived. 

Nearly  a  year  before  she  had  been  brought  here, 
a  weary,  bedraggled,  dusty,  half-starved  waif. 
Now  Uncle  Jud  met  her  at  the  station,  his  face 
shining;  Aunt  Mandy  clasped  her  close  to  her 
portly  person;  and  as  Chip  looked  around  and 


VERA  RAYMOND  315 

saw  what  had  been  done  in  her  honor  and  to 
make  her  welcome,  her  eyes  filled. 

"I  never  thought  anybody  would  care  for 'me 
like  this,"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  glancing  at 
Uncle  Jud,  her  eyes  alight,  she  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and,  for  the  first  time,  kissed  him. 

And  never  in  all  his  life  had  he  felt  more  amply 
paid  for  anything  he  had  done. 

Then  and  there,  Chip  resolved  to  do  some- 
thing that  now  lay  in  her  power  —  to  face  shame 
and  humbled  pride  and  all  the  sacrifice  it  meant 
to  her  in  the  end,  and  reunite  these  two  long-sepa- 
rated brothers.  But  not  now,  no,  not  yet. 

Before  her  lay  two  golden  joyous  summer  months. 
Aunt  Abby  was  coming  up  later.  She  could 
not  face  her  own  humiliation  now.  She  must 
wait  until  these  happy  days  were  past,  then  tell 
her  wretched  story,  not  sparing  herself  one  iota, 
and  then,  if  she  must,  go  her  way,  an  outcast  into 
the  world  once  more. 

How  utterly  wrong  she  was  in  this  conclusion, 
and  how  little  she  understood  the  broad  charity 
of  Uncle  Jud,  need  not  be  explained.  She  was 
only  a  child  as  yet  in  all  but  stature.  The  one 
most  bitter  sneer  of  malicious  Hannah  still  rankled 
and  poisoned  her  common  sense.  Its  effect  upon 


316  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Chip  had  been  as  usual  on  her  nature  and  belief, 
and  this  waif  of  the  wilderness,  this  gnome  child, 
must  not  be  judged  by  ordinary  standards.  Like 
reflections  from  grotesque  mirrors,  so  had  her 
ideas  of  right  and  duty  been  distorted  by  eerie 
influences  and  weird  surroundings.  There  was 
first  the  unspeakable  brutality  of  her  father;  then 
the  menial  years  at  Tim's  Place,  with  no  more 
consideration  than  a  horse  or  pig  received,  her 
only  education  being  the  uncanny  teachings  of 
Old  Tomah.  Under  this  baleful  tuition,  coupled 
with  the  ever  present  menace  and  mystery  of  a 
vast  wilderness,  she  passed  from  childhood  into 
womanhood,  with  the  fixed  belief  that  human 
kind  were  no  better  than  brutes  ;  that  the  forest 
was  peopled  by  a  nether  world  of  spites,  the  shad- 
owy forms  of  both  man  and  beast ;  and  worse  than 
this,  that  all  thought  and  action  here  must  be  the 
selfish  ones  of  personal  gain  and  personal  protec- 
tion. Like  a  dog  forever  expecting  a  blow,  like 
any  dumb  brute  ever  on  guard  against  superior 
force,  so  had  Chip  grown  to  maturity,  a  cringing, 
helpless,  almost  hopeless  creature,  and  yet  one 
whose  inborn  impulses  and  desires  revolted  at  her 
surroundings. 
Once  removed  from  these,  however,  and  in  a 


VERA  RAYMOND  317 

purer  atmosphere,  she  was  like  one  born  again. 
Her  past  impressions  still  remained,  her  queer 
belief  of  present  and  future  conditions  was  still 
a  motive  force,  and  the  cringing,  blow-expecting 
nature  was  yet  hers. 

For  this  reason,  and  because  this  new  world  and 
these  new  people  were  so  unaccountable  and  quite 
beyond  her  ken  in  tender  influence  and  loving 
care,  what  they  had  done  and  for  what  purpose 
seemed  all  the  more  impressive.  But  it  was  in 
no  wise  wasted ;  instead,  it  was  like  God-given  sun- 
shine to  a  flower  that  has  never  known  aught 
except  the  chilling  shadow  of  a  dense  forest. 

And  now  ensued  an  almost  pathetic  play  of 
interest,  for  Chip  set  herself  about  the  duty  of 
giving  instead  of  obtaining  pleasure. 

She  became  what  she  was  at  Tim's  Place,  —  a 
menial,  so  far  as  they  would  let  her,  —  and  from 
early  morning  until  bedtime,  some  step,  some 
duty,  some  kindly  care  for  her  benefactors,  was 
assumed  by  her.  She  worked  and  weeded  in  the 
garden,  she  drove  and  milked  the  cows,  she  fol- 
lowed Uncle  Jud  to  the  hay-field,  insisting  that 
she  must  help,  until  at  last  he  protested. 

"I  like  ye  'round  me  all  the  time,  girlie,"  he 
assured  her,  "for  ye're  the  best  o'  company,  V 


318  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

I'd  rather  see  yer  face'n'  any  posy  that  ever  grew. 
But  you've  got  to  quit  workin'  so  much  in  the 
sun.  'Twill  get  yer  hands  all  calloused  'n'  face 
freckled,  an'  I  won't  have  it.  I  want  ye  to  injie 
yourself,  read  books,  pick  flowers,  'n'  sit  in  the 
shade.  I  see  ye've  got  into  the  habit  o'  workin', 
which  ain't  a  bad  'un,  but  thar  ain't  no  need  on't 
here." 

One  day  a  stranger  happened  up  this  valley, 
so  seldom  travelled  that  its  roadway  ruts  were 
obscured  by  grass.  Chip  noticed  him  that  morn- 
ing where  the  brook  curved  almost  to  the  garden, 
a  fair-haired  young  man  with  jaunty  straw  hat, 
delicate,  shining  rod,  and  new  fish  basket.  He 
was  garbed  in  a  spick-span  brown  linen  suit.  He 
saw  her  also,  looking  over  the  garden  wall,  and 
raising  his  hat  gracefully,  strode  on. 

His  appearance,  so  neat  and  dainty  and  so  like 
pictures  of  fishermen  in  books,  his  courteous  man- 
ner of  touching  his  hat,  without  a  rude  stare  or 
even  a  second  glance  at  her,  caught  her  attention, 
and  she  watched  him  a  few  moments. 

He  did  not  look  back  until  he  had  cast  his  line 
into  a  few  eddies  some  twenty  rods  away ;  and  then 
he  turned,  looked  at  her,  the  house,  barns,  garden,  all 
as  one  picture,  and  then  continued  up  the  brook. 


VERA  RAYMOND  319 

He  was  not  seen  again  until  almost  twilight 
by  her,  and  then  he  and  Uncle  Jud  entered  the 
sitting  room. 

"This  is  Mr.  Goodnow,  Mandy,"  Uncle  Jud 
explained,  nodding  to  the  newcomer  and  glancing 
at  Aunt  Mandy  and  Chip.  "He  says  he  follered 
the  brook  further  up'n  he  figgered  on.  It's  four 
miles  to  the  Corners,  'n'  he  wants  us  to  keep  him 
over  night.  I  'lowed  we  could,  if  you  was  willin'. " 

"I  shall  be  most  grateful  if  you  kind  ladies  will 
permit  my  intrusion,"  the  stranger  added.  "I 
have  been  so  captivated  by  this  delightful  brook 
that  I  quite  forgot  where  I  was  or  the  distance  to 
the  village  until  I  saw  that  the  sun  was  setting.  If 
you  can  take  care  of  me  until  morning,  any  pay- 
ment you  will  accept  shall  be  yours." 

"I  guess  we  can  'commodate  ye,"  responded 
Aunt  Mandy,  pleasantly.  And  so  this  modern  Don 
Juan  found  lodgement  in  the  home  of  these  people. 

"I  am  an  enthusiast  on  trout-catching,"  he 
explained,  after  all  had  gathered  on  the  vine-en- 
closed porch  and  he  had  presented  Uncle  Jud  with 
an  excellent  cigar.  "About  all  I  do  summers 
is  to  hunt  for  brooks.  I  came  to  the  village  below 
here  yesterday,  having  heard  of  this  stream,  and 
never  before  have  I  found  one  quite  so  attractive. '% 


320  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Then  followed  a  more  or  less  fictitious  account 
of  his  own  station  and  occupation  in  life,  all  very 
plausible,  entirely  frank,  and  quite  convincing. 

"I  am  unfortunate  in  one  respect,"  he  said,  "in 
that  I  have  no  fixed  occupation.  My  father,  now 
dead,  was  a  prominent  physician.  I  was  educated 
for  the  same  profession  and  had  just  begun  its 
practice  when  he  died.  An  uncle  also  left  me  a 
large  bequest  at  about  the  same  time.  My  mother 
insisted  that  I  give  up  practice,  and  now  I  am  an 
enforced  idler." 

He  was  such  an  entirely  new  specimen  of  man- 
hood, so  charming  of  manner,  so  smooth  of  speech, 
that  Chip  watched  and  listened  while  he  talked 
on  and  on,  quite  enthralled.  She  had  seen  similar 
gentlemen  pass  and  repass  Tim's  Place,  not  quite 
so  dainty  and  suave,  perhaps,  but  dressed  much 
the  same.  She  had  now  and  then  noticed  a  pic- 
tured reproduction  of  one  in  some  magazine. 
Insensibly,  she  compared  this  Mr.  Goodnow  with 
Ray,  to  the  latter's  discredit,  and  when  the  even- 
ing was  ended  and  she  was  alone  in  her  room, 
this  new  arrival's  delicately  chiselled  face,  smiling 
blue  eyes,  slightly  curled  mustache,  and  refined 
manners  followed  her. 

"He's  a  purty  slick  talker,"  Uncle  Jud  admitted 


VERA  RAYMOND  321 

to  his  wife  later  on,  "a  sorter  china  ware,  pictur- 
book  feller  'thout  much  harm  in  him.  I  kinder 
felt  sorry  for  him,  so  I  'lowed  we'd  keep  him  over 
night.  Guess  he  ain't  much  use  in  the  world." 

How  little  use  and  how  much  harm  he  was 
capable  of  may  be  gleaned  from  a  brief  re'sume'  of 
this  stranger's  history. 

He  was,  as  he  stated,  without  occupation  and 
with  plenty  of  money.  He  also,  as  stated,  loved 
trout  brooks  and  wildwood  life  —  not  wildwood 
life  in  its  true  sense,  but  the  summer- day  kind, 
where,  clad  as  he  was,  he  could  follow  some 
meadow  brook  or  sit  in  the  shade  and  watch  it 
while  indulging  in  day-dreams  and  smoking.  He 
loved  these  things,  but  he  loved  fair  ladies  —  col- 
lectively —  still  more.  He  had  stumbled  upon 
Peaceful  Valley  by  accident,  coming  to  it  from  a 
fashionable  resort  to  escape  an  intrigue  with  a 
foolish  grande  dame  and  consequent  irate  husband. 
Chip's  face  and  form  had  caught  his  eyes  as  he 
strolled  by  that  day,  and  admission  to  the  home 
of  Uncle  Jud  and  opportunity  to  meet,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, impress  this  handsome  country  lass,  had  been 
a  matter  of  shrewd  calculation  with  him.  He 
had  purposely  remained  up  the  brook  until  night- 
fall. He  watched  for  and  intercepted  Uncle  Jud 


322  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

in  the  nick  of  time,  persuaded  that  confiding  man 
that  he  was  too  tired  to  reach  the  village,  and  with 
all  the  blandishments  of  speech  at  his  command, 
had  obtained  entry  to  this  home. 

But  he  failed  to  impress  Chip  as  he  had  hoped. 
She  was  no  fool,  if  she  had  been  reared  at  Tim's 
Place.  A  certain  shiftiness  in  his  eyes  when  he 
looked  at  her,  a  covert,  sideways  glance,  never 
firm  but  ever  elusive,  was  soon  noted  and  awoke 
her  suspicion.  Then  the  glib  story  he  had  told 
of  himself  was  soon  contradicted  by  him  in  a  few 
minor  details.  Like  all  liars,  he  lacked  a  perfect 
memory,  and,  talking  freely,  he  occasionally  crossed 
his  own  tracks. 

Unfortunately  for  him,  he  also  showed  more 
interest  in  her  than  in  the  brook  the  next  day,  and 
the  following  one  he  capped  the  climax  by  asking 
her  to  go  fishing  with  him  —  an  invitation  which 
she  promptly  refused. 

"I  don't  like  that  Mr.  Goodnow,"  she  asserted 
to  Uncle  Jud  a  little  later.  "I  think  he's  a  deceit- 
ful man.  He  pesters  me  every  chance  he  can, 
and  I  wish  he'd  go  away." 

That  was  enough  for  Uncle  Jud,  and  after  sup- 
per he  harnessed  his  horse  and  politely  but  firmly 
requested  Mr.  Goodnow's  company  to  the  village. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

FOR  many  weeks  now  Chip  had  suffered  from 
a  troubled  conscience,  and,  like  most  of  us,  was 
unable  to  face  its  consequences  and  admit  her 
sin. 

Time  and  again  she  had  planned  how  she  could 
best  evade  it  and  yet  bring  those  two  brothers 
together  without  first  confessing.  Old  Cy  must 
be  told,  of  course.  She  could  explain  her  conduct 
to  him.  He  would  surely  forgive  her,  she  thought, 
and  then,  maybe,  find  another  home  for  her  some- 
how and  somewhere.  Oversensitive  as  she  was, 
to  now  confess  her  cowardly  concealment  and 
her  deception  of  those  who  had  loved  and  trusted 
her,  seemed  horrible. 

But  events  were  stronger  than  her  will,  for  one 
day  in  the  last  of  August,  Uncle  Jud  returned 
from  the  village  store,  bringing  dress  materials 
and  startling  information.  "Cap'n  Bemis  is  failin' 
purty  fast,"  he  said,  "so  Aunt  Abby  writes,  an' 
she  ain't  comin'  up  here.  It  won't  make  no  differ- 
ence to  you,  girlie,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Chip. 

323 


324  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"I've  brought  home  stuff  to  rig  ye  out  fer  school. 
Miss  Solon  the  dressmaker's  comin'  to-morrer, 
'n'  we'll  take  keer  o'  ye  jn  good  shape.  We've 
made  up  our  minds  ye  belong  to  us  fer  good,  me 
'n'  Mandy,"  he  added,  smiling  at  Chip,  "an'  I 
shall  go  with  ye  to  Christmas  Cove,  if  Cap'n  Bemis 
ain't  improvin',  'n'  find  ye  a  boardin'  place." 

"I'm  awful  sorry  to  hear  'bout  the  Cap'n," 
interrupted  Aunt  Mandy,  as  if  the  other  matter 
and  Chip's  future  were  settled  definitely;  "but  if 
he  drops  off,  Aunt  Abby  must  come  here  fer  good. 
I  dunno  but  it'll  be  a  relief,"  she  added,  looking 
at  Uncle  Jud  and  sighing.  "'Twa'n't  no  love- 
match  in  the  first  place,  'n'  Abby's  mind's  always 
been  sot  on  your  brother  Cyrus,  'n'  she  never  quite 
gin  up  the  idee  he  was  alive." 

And  now  a  sudden  faintness  came  to  Chip  as 
the  chasm  irv  her  own  life  was  thus  opened.  Only 
one  instant  she  faltered,  and  then  her  defiant  cour- 
age rose  supreme  and  she  took  the  plunge. 

"Oh,  your  brother  Cyrus  isn't  dead,  Uncle 
Jud,"  she  exclaimed,  "he's  alive  and  I  know  him. 
I've  known  it  all  summer  and  dare  not  tell  because 
I'm  a  miserable  coward  and  couldn't  own  up  that 
I  lied  to  you.  My  name  isn't  Raymond,  it's 
McGuire;  and  my  father  was  a  murderer,  and  I'm 


VERA  RAYMOND  325 

nobody  and  fit  for  nobody.  I  know  you'll  all 
despise  me  now  and  I  deserve  it.  I'm  willing 
to  go  away,  though,"  and  the  next  instant  she  was 
kneeling  before  Uncle  Jud  and  sobbing. 

It  had  all  come  in  a  brief  torrent  of  pitiful  con- 
fession which  few  would  be  brave  enough  to  make. 

To  Chip,  seeing  herself  as  she  did,  it  meant 
loss  of  love,  home,  respect,  and  all  else  she  now 
valued,  and  that  she  must  become  a  homeless 
wanderer  once  more. 

But  Uncle  Jud  thought  otherwise,  for  now  he 
drew  the  sobbing  girl  into  his  lap. 

"Quit  takin'  on  so,  girlie,"  he  said,  choking 
back  a  lump;  "why,  we'll  all  love  ye  ten  times 
more  fer  all  this,  an'  ez  fer  bein'  a  nobody,  ye're 
a  blessed  angel  to  us  fer  bringin'  the  news  ye  hev." 
And  then  he  kissed  her,  while  Aunt  Mandy  wiped 
her  eyes  on  her  apron. 

The  shower,  violent  for  a  moment,  was  soon 
over;  for  as  Chip  raised  her  wet  eyes,  a  sunshiny 
smile  illumined  Uncle  Jud's  face. 

"If  Cyrus  is  alive,"  he  said,  "as  ye  callate, 
I'll  thank  God  till  I  set  eyes  on  him,  and  then  I 
think  I'll  lick  him  fer  not  huntin'  me  up  all  these 
years. " 

"But  mebbe  he   found  Abby  was  married   'n' 


326  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

didn't  want  to,"  interposed  Aunt  Mandy.  "We 
mustn't  judge  him  yet." 

"  No,  I  won't  judge  him, "  asserted  Uncle  Jud ; "  I'll 
jest  cuff  him,  good  'n'  hard,  an'  let  it  go  at  that. 

"Ez  fer  you,  girlie,  an'  jest  to  set  yer  mind  at 
rest,  we  found  out  what  your  right  name  was  and 
where  ye  run  away  from  last  fall,  but  never  let 
on  to  nobody.  'Twas  your  business  and  nobody 
else's,  an'  made  no  difference  in  our  feelin's,  ez 
ye  must  see;  an'  now  I'll  tell  ye  how  I  found  out. 

"I  was  down  to  the  Corners  one  day  arter  ye 
went  to  Christmas  Cove,  'n'  a  feller  —  nice-lookin' 
feller,  too,  with  honest  brown  eyes  —  was  askin' 
if  anybody  had  seen  or  heard  o'  a  runaway  girl 
by  the  name  o'  McGuire.  Said  she'd  run  away 
from  Green  vale  —  'That's  'bout  a  hundred  miles 
from  here,'  he  said  —  an'  he  was  huntin'  for  her. 
Nobody  at  the  Corners  knew  about  ye  'n'  I  kept 
still,  believin'  ye  had  reason  fer  not  wantin'  to  be 
found  out." 

And  now  another  tide  —  the  thrill  of  love  — 
surged  in  Chip's  heart,  and  her  face  became  glori- 
fied. 

And  so  the  clouds  rolled  away.  That  night 
Chip  wrote  a  brief  but  curious  letter,  so  odd,  in 
fact,  it  must  be  quoted  verbatim :  — 


'Quit  takin'  on  so,  girlie,"  he  said. 


VERA  RAYMOND  327 

"MR.  MARTIN  FRISBIE, 

"Please  send  word  at  once  to  Mr.  Cyrus  Walker 
that  his  brother  Judson,  who  lives  in  Riggsville, 
wants  to  see  him.  No  one  else  must  be  told  of  this, 
for  it's  a  secret. 

"ONE  WHO  KNOWS." 

But  Chip's  secret  was  a  most  transparent  one, 
for  when  this  missive  reached  Martin  three  days 
later,  he  recognized  its  angular  penmanship  and 
similarity  to  the  note  Aunt  Comfort  still  treasured, 
and  knew  that  Chip  wrote  it. 

It  startled  him  somewhat,  however,  for  Old 
Cy's  youthful  history  was  unknown  to  him,  and 
suspecting  that  some  mystery  lay  beneath  this 
information,  he  told  no  one,  but  started  for  Riggs- 
ville at  once. 

The  tide  of  emotion  that  had  upset  the  even 
tenor  of  Uncle.  Jud's  home  life  slowly  ebbed  away, 
and  a  keen  sense  of  expectancy  took  its  place. 

Chip,  after  giving  him  her  letter,  explained  that 
Old  Cy  was  most  likely  in  the  wilderness,  and 
that  the  letter  might  not  reach  him  for  weeks. 

And  then  one  day  a  broad-shouldered,  rather 
commanding,  and  somewhat  citified  man  drove  up 
to  the  home  of  Uncle  Jud. 


328  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"Does  Mr.  Judson  Walker  live  here?"  he  in- 
quired of  Aunt  Mandy,  who  met  him  at  the  door. 

Her  admission  of  that  fact  was  scarce  uttered 
when  there  came  a  rustling  of  skirts,  a  "Why, 
Mr.  Frisbie!"  and  Chip  was  beside  her,  at  which 
Martin,  collected  man  of  the  world  that  he  was, 
felt  an  unusual  heart-throb  of  thankfulness. 

A  little  later,  when  Uncle  Jud  had  been  sum- 
moned into  their  newly  furnished  "keeping  room,'* 
disclosures  astonishing  to  all  followed. 

"We  have  been  searching  for  you,  Chip,  far  and 
near,"  Martin  assured  them,  "and  Old  Cy  is  still 
at  it.  He  left  us  at  the  camp,  almost  a  year  ago, 
came  to  Greenvale,  found  you  had  run  away,  and 
came  back  to  tell  us.  It  upset  us  all  so  that  we 
broke  camp  at  once,  taking  Amzi  with  us,  and 
returned  to  Greenvale.  Old  Cy  there  bade  us 
good-bye  and  started  to  find  you.  Ray  also  began 
a  search  as  well.  I've  advertised  in  dozens  of 
papers,  have  kept  Levi  on  watch  for  you  at  Grind- 
stone ever  since,  and  now  I  hope  you  will  return 
with  me  to  Greenvale." 

"I  thank  you  all,  oh,  so  much,"  answered  Chip, 
scared  a  little  at  this  proposal,  "but  I  don't  want 
to.  I'm  nobody  there  and  never  can  be.  I'd  be 
ashamed  to  face  folks  there  any  more." 


VERA  RAYMOND  329 

"I  guess  she  best  stay  with  us,"  put  in  Uncle 
Jud,  "fer  we  sorter  'dopted  her,  'n'  not  meanin* 
no  disrespect  to  you  folks,  I  callate  she'll  be  more 
content  here.  I'd  like  ye  to  get  word  to  Cyrus, 
though,  soon's  possible.  I  hain't  sot  eyes  on  him 
fer  forty  years,  'n',"  his  eyes  twinkling,  "I'm  jest 
spilin'  to  pull  his  hair  'n'  cuff  him." 

"I  will 'help  out  in  that  matter  at  once,  and 
more  than  gladly,"  replied  Martin,  again  looking 
at  Chip  and'  noting  how  improved  she  was;  "but 
I  still  think  Miss  Runaway  had  better  return  with 
me.  We  need  you,  Chip,"  he  continued  earnestly, 
"and  so  does  some  else  I  can  name,  more  than 
you  imagine,  I  fancy,  and  my  wife  will  welcome 
you  with  open  arms,  you  may  be  sure.  As  for 
that  foolish  Hannah,  she's  the  most  penitent  per- 
son in  Greenvale.  There's  another  reason  still," 
he  added,  glancing  around  with  a  smile,  "  and  no 
one  is  more  glad  of  it  than  we  all  are.  It's  a  sixty- 
thousand-dollar  reason  —  your  heritage,  Miss  Vera 
McGuire,  for  your  father  is  dead,  and  that  amount  is 
now  in  the  Riverton  Savings  Bank  awaiting  you." 

Martin  had  expected  this  news  to  be  overpow- 
ering, and  a  "Good  God!"  from  Uncle  Jud,  and 
a  gasping  "Land  sakes!"  from  Aunt  Mandy, 
proved  that  it  was. 


33°  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

Chip's  face,  however,  was  a  study.  First  she 
grew  pale,  then  flashed  a  scared  glance  from  one 
to  another  of  the  three  who  watched  her,  and  then 
almost  did  her  shame  and  hatred  of  this  vile  parent 
find  expression. 

"I'm  glad  he  —  no,  I  won't  say  so,  for  he  was 
my  father,"  she  exclaimed;  "but  I  want  Old  Cy 
to  have  some  of  the  money,  and  Uncle  Jud  here, 
and  you  folks,  all.  I  was  a  pauper  long  enough," 
and  then,  true  to  her  instinct  of  how  to  escape  from 
trouble,  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 

"She's  a  curis  gal,"  asserted  Uncle  Jud,  looking 
after  her  as  if  feeling  that  she  needed  explanation, 
"the  most  curis  gal  I  ever  saw.  But  we  can't  let 
her  go,  money  or  no  money,  Mr.  Frisbie.  I  found 
her  one  night  upon  top  o'  Bangall  Hill.  She  was  so 
starved  an'  beat  out  from  trampin'  she  couldn't  hardly 
crawl  up  on  to  the  wagon,  'n'  yet  she  said  she  wouldn't 
be  helped  'thout  she  could  arn  it.  I  think  she's 
like  folks  we  read  about,  who  starve  ruther'n  beg. 
But  she  kin  have  all  we've  got  some  day,  an'  we 
jest  can't  let  her  go." 

And  Martin,  realizing  its  futility,  made  no  further 
protest. 

Something  of  chagrin  also  came  to  him,  for, 
broad-minded  as  he  was,  he  realized  how  partial 


VERA   RAYMOND  33! 

neglect,  the  narrow  religious  prejudice  of  Green- 
vale,  and  unwise  notice  of  her  childish  ideas  about 
spites  and  Old  Tomah's  superstitions  had  all  con- 
spired to  drive  her  away.  She  was  honest  and  self- 
respecting,  "  true  blue,"  as  Old  Cy  had  said,  grateful 
as  a  fawning  dog  for  all  that  had  been  done  for  her, 
and  in  spite  of  her  origin,  a  circumstance  that  carried 
no  weight  with  Martin,  she  was  one,  he  believed, 
who  would  develop  into  splendid  womanhood. 
That  she  was  well  on  her  way  toward  that  goal,  her 
improved  speech  and  devotion  to  these  new  friends 
gave  ample  evidence. 

And  now  Ray's  position  in  this  complex  situation 
occurred  to  Martin;  for  this  young  man's  interest 
in  Chip  and  almost  heart-broken  grief  over  her  dis- 
appearance had  long  since  betrayed  his  attachment. 

"I  suppose  you  may  have  guessed  that  there  was  a 
love-affair  mixed  up  with  this  episode,"  he  said  to 
the  two  somewhat  dazed  people. 

"I  callated  thar  was,  that  fust  night,"  Uncle  Jud 
responded,  his  eyes  twinkling  again,  "an*  told 
Mandy  so.  'Twas  that  more'n  anything  else  kept 
us  from  quizzin'  the  gal.  I  knowed  by  her  face 
she  had  heart  trouble,  'n'  I've  seen  the  cause  on't." 

"You  have,"  exclaimed  Martin,  astonished  in 
turn,  "for  Heaven's  sake,  where?" 


332  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"Oh,  down  to  the  Corners,  'most  a  year  ago,  'n* 
a  likely  boy  he  was,  too." 

"And  never  told  her?" 

"No,  why  should  I,  thinkin'  she'd  run  away 
from  him.  We  didn't  want  to  spile  her  plans.  We 
found  out,  though,  her  name  was  McGuire,  but 
never  let  on  till  she  told  us  a  spell  ago."  And  then 
Uncle  Jud  told  the  story  of  Ray's  arrival  in  Riggs- 
ville  in  search  of  Chip. 

"That  fellow  is  my  nephew,  Raymond  Stetson," 
rejoined  Martin  with  pride,  "he  also  is  an  orphan, 
and  I  have  adopted  him.  Chip  has  no  cause  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  attachment." 

"I  don't  callate  she  is,"  replied  Uncle  Jud. 
"'Tain't  that  that  jinerally  makes  a  gal  kick  over 
the  traces.  Mebbe  'twas  suthin  some  o'  you  folks 
said."  And  then  a  new  light  came  to  Martin. 

"Mr.  Walker,"  he  answered  impressively,  "in 
every  village  there  is  always  a  meddlesome  old 
maid  who  invariably  says  things  she'd  better  not, 
and  ours  is  no  exception.  In  this  case  it  was  a 
dependent  of  our  family  who  took  a  dislike  to  Chip, 
it  seems,  and  her  escapade  was  its  outcome." 

"Wai,  ye've  got  to  hev  charity  for  'em,"  replied 
Uncle  Jud  with  a  broad  smile.  "Never  havin' 
suffered  the]  joys  'n'  sorrows  o'  love,  they  look  at  it 


','"       VERA  RAYMOND  333 

sorter  criss-cross,  an'  mebbe  this  'un  did.  Old  maids 
are  a  good  deal  like  cider — nat'raly  turn  into  vinegar. 
What  wimmin  need  more'n  all  the  rest  is  bein' 
loved,  'n'  if  they  don't  get  it,  they  sour  up  in  time  an' 
ain't  no  comfort  to  themselves  nor  nobody  else. 
Then  ag'in,  not  havin'  no  man  nor  no  babies  to  look 
arter,  they  take  to  coddlin'  cats  'n'  dogs  'n'  parrots, 
which  ain't  nat'ral." 

"I  think,"  continued  Uncle  Jud,  "now  that  we've 
turned  another  furrow,  you'd  best  stop  a  day  or 
two  with  us,  'n'  sorter  git  'quainted.  We'll  be 
mighty  glad  to  hev  ye,  me  an'  Mandy,  an'  then  ag'in 
thar's  a  lot  o'  good  trout  holes  up  the  brook.  We 
hev  plenty  to  eat,  'n'  mebbe  a  few  days  here  in 
Peaceful  Valley '11  sorter  reconcile  ye  to  leavin'  the  gal 
with  us."  And  nothing  loath,  Martin  accepted. 

Aunt  Mandy  and  Chip  now  bestirred  themselves 
as  never  before.  The  dressmaker  was  left  to  her 
own  resources,  Martin  and  Uncle  Jud  rigged  fish- 
poles  and  started  for  the  brook.  Chip,  with  pail 
in  hand,  hurried  away  to  the  fields,  and  when  tea- 
time  arrived,  the  big  platter  of  crisp  fried  trout, 
saucers  filled  with  luscious  blackberries,  and  ample 
shortcake  of  the  same  with  cream  that  poured  in 
clots,  assured  Martin  that  these  people  did  indeed 
have  plenty  to  eat. 


334  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"How  did  this  come  to  be  named  Peaceful  Val- 
ley?" he  queried,  when  they  had  all  gathered  around 
the  table.  "It's  very  appropriate." 

"Wai,"  answered  Uncle  Jud,  "we  got  it  from  a 
feller  that  come  up  here  paintin'  picturs  one  summer, 
an',"  chuckling,  "'twas  all  we  got  for  a  month's 
board,  at  that.  He  was  a  sort  o'  skimpy  critter, 
with  long  hair,  kinder  pale,  and  chawed  tobacco 
stiddy.  He  'lowed  his  name  was  Grahame,  that 
he  was  in  the  show  business  'n'  gittin'  backgrounds, 
as  he  called  'em,  fer  show  picturs.  He  roved  up  'n' 
down  the  brook,  puttin'  rocks  'n'  trees  'n'  waterfalls 
on  paper,  alms  gittin'  'round  reg'lar  'bout  meal-time 
—  must  'a'  gained  twenty  pounds  while  here.  An' 
then  one  mornin'  he  was  missin',  'n'  so  was  Aunt 
Mandy's  gold  thimble  'n'  all  her  silver  spoons.  She'd 
sorter  took  to  him,  too,  he  was  that  palaverin'  in  his 
way." 

There  now  ensued  a  series  a  questions  from  Uncle 
Jud  in  regard  to  Old  Cy  —  how  long  Martin  had 
known  him,  and  all  that  pertained  to  his  history. 

It  was  gladly  recited  by  Martin,  together  with  all 
the  strange  happenings  in  the  wilderness,  the  finding 
of  Chip,  the  half-breed's  pursuit  and  abduction  of 
her,  and  much  else  that  has  been  told. 

It  was  almost  midnight  ere  Martin  was  shown  to 


VERA  RAYMOND  335 

the  best  front  chamber,  and  even  then  he  lay  awake 
an  hour,  listening  to  the  steady  prattle  of  a  near-by 
brook  and  thinking  of  all  that  had  happened. 

A  tone  of  regret  crept  into  his  voice,  however, 
when,  after  thanking  Uncle  Jud  and  Aunt  Mandy, 
and  bidding  them  good-bye,  he  addressed  Chip. 

"I  wish  I  could  take  you  back  with  me,"  he  said, 
"your  return  would  be  such  a  blessing  to  Aunt 
Comfort  and  my  wife.  You  may  not  believe  it, 
but  you  are  dear  to  them  both.  I  must  insist  that  you 
at  least  pay  us  a  visit  soon.  Here  is  your  bank  book," 
he  added,  presenting  it.  "You  are  rich  now,  or  at 
least  need  never  want,  for  which  we  are  all  grateful. 
And  what  about  Ray?"  he  added,  pausing  to  watch 
her.  "What  shall  I  say  to  him?  Shall  I  tell  him 
to  come  and  see  you?" 

Chip  shook  her  head  firmly.  "No,  no,"  she  an- 
swered, "please  don't  do  that.  Some  day  I  may 
feel  different,  but  not  now." 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

SAD  news  arrived  in  Peaceful  Valley  a  week  later, 
for  Captain  Bemis  had  passed  on,  Aunt  Abby  was 
in  lonely  sorrow,  and  wrote  for  Chip  to  come  at  once. 

Her  fate  was  now  linked  with  these  people.  Aunt 
Abby  had  been  kind  and  helpful,  and  Chip,  more 
than  glad  to  return  a  little  of  the  obligation,  hurried 
to  Christmas  Cove. 

It  was  a  solemn  and  silent  house  she  now  entered. 
Aunt  Abby,  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  not  a  love- 
match,  mourned  her  departed  companion.  The 
mill's  pertinent  silence  added  gloom,  and  Chip's 
smiling  face  and  affectionate  interest  was  more  than 
welcome  to  Aunt  Abby. 

And  now  that  concealment  was  no  longer  needed, 
Chip  hastened  to  tell  her  story  in  full. 

How  utterly  Aunt  Abby  was  astonished,  how 
breathlessly  she  listened  to  Chip's  recital,  and  how, 
when  the  climax  came  and  Chip  assured  her  that 
good  Old  Cy  Walker  was  still  alive,  Aunt  Abby  col- 
lapsed entirely,  sobbing  and  thanking  God  all  at 
once,  is  but  a  sidelight  on  this  tale. 

336 


VERA  RAYMOND  337 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  before,"  Chip  assured  her, 
while  her  own  tears  still  flowed.  "  I  was  so  ashamed 
and  guilty  all  in  one,  I  couldn't  bear  to.  I  never 
did  so  mean  a  thing  in  all  my  life,  and  never  will 
again.  <  But  when  Uncle  Jud  told  me  what  you 
didn't,  and  how  much  he  cared  for  me,  and  how 
you  once  cared  for  Uncle  Cy,  I  went  all  to  pieces  and 
told  the  whole  story  and  sent  word  to  Uncle  Cy  that 
day.  I  feel  so  guilty  now,  and  so  mean,  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  forgive  me." 

But  Aunt  Abby's  forgiveness  was  not  slow  in 
coming.  The  past  ten  days  of  sorrow  had  left  her 
heart  very  tender.  In  spite  of  being  "book-larned," 
she  was  very  humane.  Chip's  sad  life  and  misfor- 
tunes appealed  to  her,  as  they  had  to  Uncle  Jud, 
and  true  Christian  woman  that  she  was,  her  heart 
opened  to  Chip. 

"I  hope  we  shall  never  be  parted  while  I  live," 
she  said,  as  the  tears  came  again.  "  I  have  no  chil- 
dren, and  no  one  to  live  for  but  my  sister.  I  am  so 
wonted  to  Christmas  Cove,  I  could  not  feel  at  home 
anywhere  else.  If  Uncle  Jud  will  consent,  I  will 
adopt  you  legally,  and  when  I  am  laid  away,  all  I 
have  shall  be  yours." 

And  so  Chip  McGuire,  waif  of  the  wilderness, 
child  of  an  outlaw,  once  sold  to  a  human  brute,  yet 


338  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

fighting  her  way  upward  and  onward  to  a  better  life, 
despite  every  drawback,  now  found  a  home  and 
mother. 

No  light  of  education  had  illumined  her  pathway, 
no  Christian  teaching  and  no  home  example,  only 
the  inborn  and  God-given  impulse  of  purity,  self- 
respect,  and  gratitude;  and  yet,  like  a  bud  forcing 
its  way  up  out  of  a  muck  heap  and  into  the  sunshine, 
so  Chip  had  emerged  to  win  respect  and  love. 

But  all  her  history  is  not  told  yet.  She  still 
lacked  even  a  common  education.  There  was  still 
an  old  man  seeking  to  find  her,  who  was  yet  wander- 
ing afar.  A  homeless,  almost  friendless  old  man 
was  he,  whose  life  had  gone  amiss,  and  whose  sole 
ambition  was  to  do  for  her  and  find  content  in  her 
happiness.  A  wanderer  and  recluse  for  many  years, 
he  was  still  more  so  now,  and  out  of  place  as  well 
among  the  busy  haunts  of  men.  More  than  that, 
he  was  an  object  of  curiosity  to  all  grown  people 
and  the  jest  of  the  young,  as  he  tramped  up  and  down 
the  land  in  search  of  Chip. 

And  what  a  pitiful  quest  it  was,  —  this  asking  the 
same  question  thousands  of  times,  this  lingering  in 
towns  to  watch  mill  operatives  file  out,  this  peering 
into  stores  and  marts,  to  go  on  again,  and  repeat 
it  for  months  and  months. 


VERA   RAYMOND  339 

There  was  still  another  link  in  this  chain,  — 
a  boy,  so  far  as  experience  goes,  who  was  only 
deterred  from  unwise  haste  by  a  cool-headed 
man. 

"You  had  better  not  go  to  Chip  now,"  Martin 
said  to  him  on  his  return  from  Peaceful  Valley. 
"She  is  an  odd  child  of  nature,  and  you  won't  lose 
by  waiting.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  forget  her  for 
the  present,  find  some  profitable  occupation,  and  then, 
when  you  have  made  a  little  advancement  in  life, 
go  and  woo  her  if  you  can.  To  try  it  now  is  foolish." 

It  was  cold  comfort  for  Ray. 

One  of  Chip's  first  acts  of  emancipation  was  to 
write  to  Aunt  Comfort  and  Angie,  assuring  both  of 
her  love  and  best  wishes,  and  thanking  them  for  all 
they  had  done.  Both  letters  were  cramped  in 
chirography  but  correct  in  spelling,  and  in  Angle's 
was  a  note  for  Martin,  asking  that  he  draw  one 
hundred  dollars  of  her  money  and  send  it  to  her,  and 
as  much  more  to  pay  some  one  to  follow  Old  Cy. 
The  latter  request  Martin  ignored,  however,  for  he 
had  already  set  the  machinery  of  newspaperdom  at 
work,  and  an  advertisement  for  information  of  that 
wanderer  was  flying  far  and  wide. 

Of  the  money  sent  her,  Chip  made  odd  and  quite 
characteristic  uses,  only  one  of  which  needs  mention, 


340  THE   GIRL    FROM   TIM'S    PLACE 

—  the  purchase  of  a  banjo.  Had  Ray  known  this, 
and  that  the  tender  memory  it  invoked  was  the  reason 
for  this  investment,  he  would  have  had  less  cause  for 
grief.  But  Ray  did  not,  which  was  all  the  better 
for  him. 

And  now,  while  she  is  in  good  company  at  Christ- 
mas Cove,  with  Mr.  Bell,  syntax,  decimal  fractions, 
the  planetary  system,  and  divisions  of  the  earth 
six  hours  of  each  school  day,  or  with  Aunt  Abby 
sewing,  or  picking  at  the  banjo,  or  attending  church, 
we  must  leave  Chip  and  follow  Old  Cy. 

With  a  hunter's  instinct  he  had  calculated  that 
Chip  would  head  for  the  place  of  her  birth,  and  then, 
if  possible,  send  word  to  either  himself  or  the  Indian. 
That  she  had  made  way  with  herself  he  did  not 
consider  probable.  She  was  not  of  that  fibre,  he 
felt  positive ;  but  instead,  would  make  her  own  way 
across  country,  working,  if  need  be,  to  obtain  food 
and  shelter  until  she  at  last  reached  the  one  spot 
nearest  her  heart,  —  her  mother's  grave. 

Believing  this  of  her,  and  judging  rightly,  he  left 
Greenvale,  and,  as  it  happened,  twice  crossed  and 
once  followed  the  very  route  she  had  taken  for  miles. 
That  he  failed  to  hear  of  her  from  the  many  he  asked 
was  solely  due  to  accident,  added  to  her  own  caution 
in  avoiding  all  observant  eyes. 


VERA  RAYMOND  341 

And  what  an  almost  hopeless  and  interminable 
tramp  he  took !  Back  and  forth  across  the  section 
of  country  she  was  likely  to  follow  for  weeks  and 
weeks,  halting  a  day  in  every  village  and  two  or  three 
in  each  city,  asking  the  same  question  over  and  over 
again,  until  his  indomitable  courage  and  almost 
deathless  faith  slowly  ebbed  away. 

Autumn  came,  the  leaves  grew  scarlet  and  brown, 
snow  followed,  and  winter  locked  all  streams,  and 
still  Old  Cy  journeyed  on.  Spring  and  sunshine 
once  more  warmed  the  earth  into  life,  the  fields  grew 
green,  and  yet  he  paused  not. 

With  June  and  the  real  beginning  of  summer, 
however,  came  a  new  inspiration,  which  was  to  go 
at  once  by  rail  and  stage  to  Chip's  native  town  and 
learn  if,  perchance,  she,  or  any  news  of  her,  had 
reached  this  village. 

Another  thought  also  came  with  this,  —  that  Mar- 
tin might  soon  again  visit  the  woods  and  perhaps  he 
could  intercept  him. 

A  little  satisfaction  was  obtained  by  this  advance 
move,  for  when  this  village  was  reached,  Levi  was 
found  waiting. 

"I've  been  watchin'  for  the  gal  over  eight  months 
now,  under  pay  from  Mr.  Frisbie,"  he  assured  Old 
Cy  when  they  met.  "  I  also  sent  word  to  Old  Tomah 


342  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

late  last  fall,  'n'  he  came  out  o'  the  woods  'n'  stayed 
here  two  months,  but  nothin's  been  heard  o'  poor 
Chip  by  any  one,  'n'  I  doubt  ever  will  be." 

"Mebbe  not  yet,"  answered  Old  Cy,  "but  thar 
will  be  some  day,  an'  here,  too.  She  hadn't  a  cent 
when  she  left  Greenvale  —  only  grit,  'n'  it's  a  long 
ways  here  fer  a  gal  what's  got  to  arn  her  vittles 
while  she's  trampin'.  It  may  be  one  year,  it  may  be 
two,  but  some  day  Chip'll  show  up  here,  if  she  lives 
to  do  it.  I  callate  I'd  best  wait  here  a  few  weeks 
tho',  an'  then,  if  nothin'  turns  up,  I'll  start  ag'in." 

Nothing  did,  however;  but  during  his  stay,  Old 
Cy  learned  that  Chip's  entire  history,  from  the  night 
she  left  Tim's  Place  until  she  ran  away  from  Green- 
vale,  was  known  at  this  village.  This  fact  was  of  no 
value  whatever,  except  to  prove  the  universal  interest 
all  humanity  has  in  the  fate  and  fortune  of  one 
another. 

"I  never  told  what  happened  in  the  woods," 
Levi  responded  when  Old  Cy  questioned  him,  "an* 
didn't  need  to,  for  it  got  here  'fore  I  did.  I  jest 
'lowed  it  was  true,  'n'  that  I  was  hired  to  wait  and 
watch  here  for  Chip.  It's  curis,  too,  how  every- 
body here  feels  'bout  it.  They're  a  poorish  sort  here, 
families  o'  lumbermen,  men  that  work  in  the  saw- 
mills, some  farmin',  an'  all  findin'  it  hard  work  to  git 


VERA  RAYMOND  343 

a  livin'.  An'  yet  they're  so  interested  in  Chip  'n' 
so  sorry  for  her,  if  she  shows  up  now  she'd  be  carried 
'round  the  village  like  some  queen  'ud  be,  with  every- 
body follerin'.  Thar's  'nother  curis  thing  happened 
since  I've  been  here  that  I'd  never  believed  o'  these 
people  neither.  I  told  them,  of  course,  who  I  was, 
'n'  what  I  was  here  for,  'n'  who  was  payin'  me, 
when  I  come,  an'  then  as  time  kinder  went  slow,  I 
began  huntin'  some  'round  here.  Wai,  thar's  a 
little  graveyard  up  back  o'  the  village  'n'  all  growed 
up  to  weeds  'n'  bushes,  an'  one  day  last  fall  I  hap- 
pened to  be  lookin'  it  over  'n'  somebody  come  'long. 
It  was  a  man  that  keeps  store  here,  an'  I  asked  him 
if  'twas  here  Chip's  mother  was  buried.  He  said 
'twas,  an'  pointed  out  the  spot  'way  up  in  one  corner, 
'thout  any  stone,  'n'  the  mound  most  hid  in  a  tangle. 
I  didn't  say  nothin'  — jest  looked,  an'  went  on,  'n'  that 
was  all.  Wai,  the  curis  part  is  last  spring  they  sot 
a  couple  o'  men  to  work  cleanin'  up  the  graveyard 
o'  bushes  an'  laid  out  walks  'n'  built  a  new  fence 
'round  it.  That  one  unmarked  grave  got  the  most 
attention  o'  all,  for  they  turfed  it  over  nice  and  built 
a  little  fence  'round  it.  I  kinder  callated  how  'n'  why 
it  all  come  'bout,  'n'  feelin'  I  oughter  do  suthin,  I 
had  a  little  stun  sot  up  with  Chip's  mother's  name 
on  it." 


344  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

But  time  also  went  "kinder  slow"  for  Old  Cy,  and 
as  the  date  for  Martin's  probable  coming  had  now 
passed,  he  finally  yielded  to  Levi's  suggestion  and 
the  call  of  the  wilderness  as  well,  and  the  two  started 
for  Martin's  camp. 

It  was  almost  like  a  pilgrimage  to  one's  boyhood 
home ;  for  while  scarce  a  year  had  elapsed  since  Old 
Cy  and  Martin's  party  left  it,  Nature,  always  seek- 
ing to  hide  human  handiwork,  had  been  busy,  and 
the  garden  was  a  tangle  of  weeds.  Amzi's  old  cabin 
was  almost  hid  by  bushes,  the  walks  were  choked 
with  them,  and  a  colony  of  squirrels  frisked  about, 
and  now,  alarmed  at  human  presence,  added  a 
touch  of  pathos. 

One  act  of  vandalism  was  in  evidence,  for  some 
wandering  trappers  had  apparently  used  the  larger 
cabin  the  previous  season.  Its  floor  was  littered 
with  all  manner  of  debris,  the  bones  of  a  deer  mould- 
ered in  the  woodshed,  and  a  family  of  porcupines 
had  also  found  the  premises  available.  The  impres- 
sion conveyed  by  the  entire  spot  and  its  surroundings 
made  even  Levi  gloomy,  while  Old  Cy  scarce  spoke 
the  entire  first  day  there,  except  to  exclaim  at  "var- 
mints" who  would  break  locks,  use  the  cabin  for 
months,  and  then  leave  a  litter  of  garbage  to  draw 
vermin. 


VERA   RAYMOND  345 

"It's  curis  how  near  to  hogs  'n'  hyenas  a  few 
humans  are,"  he  said  as  he  looked  around  and  saw 
how  these  vandals  had  behaved.  "They  wa'n't 
satisfied  with  burglin'  the  cabin,  turnin'  it  into  a  pig- 
pen, stealin'  all  they  could  carry  off,  but  they  was 
so  durned  lazy,  they  smashed  up  the  furniture  to 
burn." 

For  a  few  days  only  these  two  fine  old  backwoods- 
men tarried  here,  and  then  Old  Cy  proposed  depar- 
ture. 

"I  can't  take  no  comfort  here,  nohow,"  he  said, 
"for  the  premises  seem  ha'nted.  Whichever  way 
I  turn  I  'spect  to  meet  Amzi  with  his  moon  eyes,  or 
see  Chip  watchin'  me,  or  Angie  steppin'  out  o'  the 
cabin.  If  I  stayed  here  long,  I'd  see  Chip's  spites 
crawlin'  out  o'  the  bushes  soon  ez  it  got  dusky.  I'm 
used  to  the  woods,  but  this  spot  seems  like  a  grave- 
yard. 

"I  never  done  no  prayin',"  he  added  sadly.  "I 
don't  b'lieve  in't.  But  if  I  could  set  eyes  on  Chip 
this  minit,  I'd  go  right  down  on  my  knees  'n'  say, 
'Thank  God  for  this  blessinV  I'm  'fraid  I  never 
will,  though." 

The  next  morning  these  two  friends  left  this  abode 
of  unseen  forms,  more  disconsolate  than  ever.  They 
halted  at  Tim's  Place  long  enough  to  learn  that  no 


346  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

tidings  of  McGuire  or  the  half-breed  had  even 
reached  that  filthy  station,  and  then  returned  to  the 
settlement  once  more.  Here  Old  Cy  waited  until 
the  summer  waned,  vainly  hoping  each  day  would 
at  least  bring  some  word  from  Martin  or  Chip,  and 
then  bade  Levi  good-bye,  and  departed. 

Ke  had  been  gone  a  week,  a  wandering  tramp 
once  more,  when  Ray  appeared,  bearing  the  glad 
news  that  Chip  had  been  found.  And  also  another 
and  a  more  astounding  fact. 

But  Old  Cy  was  not  there. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

LIFE,  always  colorless  at  Christmas  Cove,  except 
in  midsummer,  now  became  changed  for  Aunt 
Abby.  For  all  the  years  since  her  one  girlish  ro- 
mance had  ended,  she  had  been  a  patient  helpmate* 
to  a  man  she  merely  respected.  Religion  had  been 
her  chief  solace.  The  annual  visit  to  her  sister's 
gave  the  only  relief  to  this  motionless  life,  monoto- 
nous as  the  tides  sweeping  in  and  out  of  the  cove; 
but  now  a  counter-current  slowly  flowed  into  it. 

Chip,  of  course,  with  her  winsome  eyes  and  grate- 
ful ways,  was  its  mainspring,  and  so  checkered  had 
been  her  career  and  so  humiliating  all  her  past  ex- 
periences, that  now,  escaped  from  dependence  and 
feeling  herself  a  valued  companion,  she  tasted  a  new 
and  joyous  life.  So  true  was  this,  that  hard  lessons 
at  school,  the  regularity  of  church-going,  and  the 
unvarying  tenor  of  it  all  seemed  less  by  comparison. 

Another  undercurrent,  aside  from  Chip's  devo- 
tion, also  swept  into  Aunt  Abby's  feelings,  —  the 
strange  emotions  following  the  knowledge  that  her 
former  lover  was  still  alive.  For  many  years  she 

347 


348  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

had  waited  and  hoped  for  this  sailor  boy's  return; 
then  her  heart  had  grown  silent,  as  hope  slowly 
ebbed,  and  then,  almost  forgetfulness  —  but  not 
quite,  however,  for  the  long,  lily-dotted  mill-pond 
just  above  had  now  and  then  been  visited  by  them. 
A  certain  curiously  grown  oak  which  was  secluded 
near  its  upper  end  was  once  a  trysting-place,  and 
even  the  old  mill  with  its  plashing  wheel  held 
memories. 

And  now  after  forty  years,  during  which  she  had 
become  gray-haired  and  slightly  wrinkled,  all  these 
memories  returned  like  ghosts  of  long  ago.  No 
word  or  hint  of  them  fell  from  her  lips,  not  even  to 
Chip,  who  was  now  nearest  to  her ;  and  yet  had  that 
girl  been  a  mind-reader,  she  would  have  seen  that 
Aunt  Abby's  persistent  interest  in  all  she  had  to  tell 
about  Old  Cy  meant  something.  Where  he  was 
now,  how  soon  he  would  learn  that  his  brother  was 
still  alive  after  all  these  years,  was  the  one  most 
pertinent  subject  oft  discussed. 

How  Chip  felt  toward  him,  not  alone  for  the 
heritage  he  had  secured  for  her,  but  for  other  and 
more  valued  heart  interests,  need  not  be  specified. 
He  had  seemed  almost  a  father  to  her  at  the  lake. 
He  was  the  first  of  her  new-found  friends  whose 
feelings  had  warmed  toward  her,  and  Chip  was  now 


VERA  RAYMOND  349 

mature  enough  to  value  these  blessings  at  their  true 
worth. 

A  certain  mutual  expectancy  now  entered  the 
lives  of  Chip  and  Aunt  Abby.  Nothing  could  be 
done,  however.  Old  Cy  had  gone  out  into  the  wide, 
wide  world,  as  it  were,  searching  for  the  little  girl 
he  loved.  No  manner  of  reaching  him  seemed  pos- 
sible ;  and  yet,  some  day,  he  must  learn  what  would 
bring  him  to  them  as  fast  as  steam  could  fetch  him. 

"  I  know  that  he  loved  me  as  his  own  child  there 
at  the  lake,"  Chip  said  once  in  an  exultant  tone. 
"His  going  after  me  proves  it;  and  once  he  hears 
where  I  am,  he  will  hurry  here,  I  know." 

Whether  Aunt  Abby's  heart  responded  to  that 
wish  or  not,  she  never  disclosed. 

But  the  days,  weeks,  and  months  swept  by,  and 
Old  Cy  came  not.  Neither  did  any  message  come 
to  Chip  from  Greenvale.  At  first,  rebelling  at  Ray's 
treatment  of  her,  Chip  felt  that  she  never  wanted 
to  see  him  again.  She  had  been  so  tender  and 
loving  toward  him  at  the  lake,  had  striven  so  hard 
to  learn  and  to  be  more  like  him,  had  waited  and 
watched,  counting  the  days  until  his  return,  only 
to  be  told  what  she  could  not  forget  and  to  find  him 
so  neglectful,  so  cool  to  her,  when  her  girlish  heart 
was  so  full  of  love,  that  her  feelings  had  changed 


350  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM5S   PLACE 

almost  in  one  instant,  and  pride  had  made  her 
bitter. 

Hannah  had  told  an  unpleasant  truth,  as  Chip 
knew  well  enough;  but  truth  and  confiding  love 
mixed  illy,  and  Ray's  conduct,  leaving  her  as  he  did 
with  scarce  a  word  or  promise,  was  an  episode  that 
had  chilled  and  almost  killed  Chip's  budding  affec- 
tion. As  is  always  the  case,  such  a  feeling  fades 
and  flares  like  all  others.  There  would  now  be  a 
brief  space  when  Chip  hoped  and  longed  for  Ray's 
coming,  and  then  days  when  no  thought  of  him 
came. 

It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  him  that  Christmas 
Cove  contained  no  serious  admirer  of  Chip  the 
while,  else  his  cause  and  all  memory  of  him  would 
have  been  swept  away.  But  that  quaint  village  was 
peopled  chiefly  by  old  folk,  those  of  the  male  per- 
suasion being  quite  young,  with  a  few  girls  of  Chip's 
age.  Few  young  men  remained  there  to  make  their 
way,  and  so  no  added  interest  came  to  vary  Chip's 
life. 

The  coming  of  summer,  however,  brought  the 
annual  influx  of  city  boarders  once  more.  First 
came  elderly  ladies,  more  anxious  about  suitable 
rooms  and  food  than  aught  else,  and  then  came  the 
younger  ones,  whose  gowns  and  their  display  ap- 


VERA   RAYMOND  351 

peared  the  only  motive  for  existence.  A  few  young 
men  followed  in  their  wake.  Now  and  then  a  small 
yacht  anchored  in  the  mouth  of  the  cove.  The  long 
wharf  became  a  rendezvous  for  promenaders,  tennis 
courts  were  established,  and  gay  costumes,  bright 
parasols,  and  astounding  hats  were  in  evidence. 

It  was  all  a  new  and  fascinating  panorama  for 
Chip.  Never  before  had  she  seen  such  butterflies 
of  fashion,  who  glanced  at  her  and  her  more  modest 
raiment  almost  with  scorn,  and  scarce  conscious  of 
them,  she  looked  on  with  awe  and  admiration. 

The  old  mill,  the  quaint  house  where  she  dwelt, 
and  especially  the  long  pond,  now  sprinkled  thickly 
with  lilies,  became  a  Mecca  for  these  newcomers, 
and  not  a  pleasant  day  passed  but  from  two  to  a 
dozen  of  them  came  trooping  about  and  around  it. 
They  peered  into  the  mill,  exclaimed  over  the  great 
dripping  wheel,  and  almost  shouted  at  the  sight  of 
the  white  blossoms  on  the  pond. 

One  day  a  bevy  of  laughing  and  chattering  girls 
with  one  gallant  in  white  flannels  approached  the 
mill  while  Chip  in  calico  was  kneeling  beside  a 
flower-bed.  She  looked  up  at  once  and  saw  her 
erstwhile  admirer  at  Peaceful  Valley,  Mr.  Goodnow. 
One  instant  only  their  eyes  met,  his  to  turn  quickly 
away,  and  then  Chip,  coloring  at  the  slight,  rose 


352  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

and  entered  the  house.  Once  safe  in  this  asylum, 
womanlike,  she  hastened  to  peep  out  at  the  arrivals. 
They  halted  for  only  a  glance  about  and  then,  their 
protector  (?)  still  in  the  lead,  vanished  behind  the 
mill. 

The  next  afternoon,  just  as  Chip  was  returning 
from  the  village  store,  she  met  Mr.  Goodnow  again, 
this  time  alone. 

With  a  bow  and  smile  he  raised  his  hat  and  halted. 

"Why,  Miss  Raymond,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly, 
"I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you  again.  Are  you  visiting 
here,  and  when  did  you  leave  Peaceful  Valley?" 

"I  am  living  here  now,"  returned  Chip,  coolly, 
continuing  on  her  way,  "where  you  saw  me  yes- 
terday." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  not  the  least  abashed, 
"and  you  must  pardon  me  for  not  recognizing  you 
then.  It's  been  a  year,  you  know,  since  I  saw  you, 
and  you  have  changed  so  in  that  time." 

"Of  course,"  responded  Chip,  her  eyes  snapping, 
"you  couldn't  remember  me  so  long.  Why  don't 
you  tell  the  truth  and  say  you  didn't  dare  know  me 
before  those  ladies?" 

"Why,  Miss  Raymond,  you  wrong  me;  but  I 
admire  your  frankness  —  it  is  so  unusual  among 
your  charming  sex!" 


VERA  RAYMOND  353 

"Then  you  did  know  me,"  she  returned  sarcas- 
tically, "I  knew  well  enough,  and  if  they  were  with 
you  now,  you  wouldn't  know  me.  I'm  no  fool,  if  I 
do  wear  calico." 

It  was  blunt.  It  was  truthful.  It  was  Chip  all 
over;  but  this  polished  rake  never  winced. 

"I  never  dispute  a  lady,"  he  answered  suavely; 
"it  doesn't  pay.  Besides,  I  have  found  they  all 
prefer  sweet  lies  instead  of  truth.  And  now  I  will 
admit  you  looked  so  charming  as  you  raised  your 
face  from  among  the  flowers  that  I  was  dazed  and 
didn't  think  to  bow." 

"You  weren't  so  dazed  but  that  you  managed  to 
get  away  in  a  hurry." 

"Why,  of  course,  I  was  piloting  my  friends  up  to 
the  lily  pond,"  he  returned,  still  unruffled,  "and 
much  as  I  desired,  I  couldn't  pause  to  visit  with 
you." 

They  had  now  reached  Chip's  home.  She  halted 
at  the  gate,  turned,  and  looked  at  him. 

"I  hope  we  may  be  friends,  now  that  you  have 
scolded  me  enough,"  he  added.  "I  had  a  delight- 
ful week  with  you  last  summer.  I've  lived  it  over 
many  times.  May  I  not  call  here  to-morrow,  and 
you  and  I  will  gather  some  of  the  lilies?" 

A  droll  smile  crept  over  Chip's  face  at  this. 


354  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

"Yes,  if  you  will  bring  your  lady  friends  also," 
she  answered.  And  with  a  "Thank  you,"  and 
raising  his  hat  once  more,  this  smooth-spoken  fellow, 
impervious  to  sarcasm,  turned  away. 

"Who  was  the  young  man?"  Aunt  Abby  queried, 
when  Chip  entered  the  house. 

"It's  a  Mr.  Goodnow,  who  spent  a  week  with 
Uncle  Jud,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "He  came  by 
here  yesterday  with  three  ladies  and  was  close  to  me 
when  I  was  working  in  my  posy  bed.  He  made  out 
he  didn't  remember  me  then,  when  I  met  him  this 
afternoon.  I  guess  I  was  saucy  to  him.  I  meant 
to  be.  He  wouldn't  take  it,  and  walked  home  with 
me." 

Aunt  Abby  looked  surprised. 

"I  hope  you  weren't  really  saucy,"  she  answered, 
"that  wouldn't  have  been  becoming." 

Mr.  Goodnow  appeared  next  day,  not  at  all  dis- 
turbed, and  Chip,  a  little  more  gracious,  consented 
to  gather  lilies  with  him.  The  leaky  punt  that  had 
served  for  that  purpose  many  years  was  bailed  out. 
He  manned  the  oars.  Chip  bared  one  rounded  arm, 
and,  thus  equipped,  two  really  enjoyable  hours  were 
passed. 

As  Uncle  Jud  had  said,  he  was  a  "slick  talker." 
Truth  was  not  considered  by  him;  instead,  subtile 


VERA  RAYMOND  355 

flatteries  were  his  stock  in  trade,  and  Chip,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  felt  their  insidious  influence. 
She  was  in  no  wise  deceived.  Her  woman's  wit  and 
good  sense  detected  the  sham,  and  caring  not  one 
whit  for  him,  she  responded  as  saucily  as  she  chose. 
It  was  not,  perhaps,  quite  ladylike,  but  Chip  was 
not  as  yet  a  polished  lady;  instead,  she  was  a  de- 
cidedly blunt-spoken  girl  who  enjoyed  exasperating 
this  fashionable  Lothario. 

And  never  before  had  he  met  her  like  or  one  so 
fearless  of  speech. 

"You  are  the  sauciest  girl  I  have  ever  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting,"  he  said,  as  they  drew  up  to 
the  landing  and  began  sorting  the  lilies.  "I  didn't 
notice  it  so  much  last  summer ;  and  yet  you  are  no 
less  charming,  mainly  because  you  are  so  frank. 
Most  ladies  whom  I  know  are  not  so.  They  are 
arrant  hypocrites  and  not  one  assertion  in  ten  can 
be  taken  at  its  face  value." 

"You  seem  to  have  been  an  apt  scholar,"  Chip 
responded,  smiling.  "If  you  like  my  blunt  speech, 
as  you  say,  why  don't  you  imitate  it  and  be  truthful 
for  once  in  your  life  ?  " 

"I  dare  not.  No  man  ever  yet  won  a  woman's 
favor  by  plain  speech." 

"And  so  you  want  my  favor.     What  for?    I  am 


356  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

not  of  your  sort.  I  do  not  spend  my  life  playing 
golf  and  tennis  and  wearing  fine  clothes." 

"But  you  ought  to.  You  have  the  face  and  form 
required,  and  once  you  got  into  the  swim  of  society, 
you  would  become  a  leader." 

Chip  greeted  this  with  a  laugh.  "Do  you  plaster 
it  on  as  thick  as  that  with  every  one,"  she  queried, 
"and  will  they  stand  it?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  chuckled,  "and  almost  beg  for 
more.  My  ladies  thrive  on  flattery,  and  unless  a 
man  doles  it  out  to  them,  they  think  him  stupid." 

When  he  had  helped  her  out  of  the  boat,  holding 
and  pressing  her  hand  unduly  long  she  thought,  he 
gathered  up  the  lilies  and,  with  a  graceful  bow  and 
"Sweets  to  the  sweet,"  offered  them  to  her. 

"I  don't  want  them,"  she  answered  bluntly. 
"Take  them  to  your  arrant  hypocrites  and  tell  them 
a  girl  you  couldn't  fool  sent  'em."  And  nonplussed 
a  little  at  this  speech,  but  still  smiling,  he  followed 
Chip  to  the  house.  At  the  gate  he  halted  and  their 
eyes  met. 

"I've  had  a  most  charming  morning,  for  which 
I  thank  you,"  he  said.  And  drawing  two  of  the 
largest  blooms  from  the  bunch  of  lilies,  he  laid  the 
rest  on  the  gate-post.  "You  will  have  to  take  them," 
he  added.  "And  now  I  have  something  else  to 


VERA  RAYMOND  357 

propose.  I  own  a  small  yacht.  It  is  anchored 
down  near  the  wharf.  How  would  you  like  a  sail 
to-morrow?  I  shall  be  highly  pleased  to  have  you 
for  my  guest.  Will  you  go?" 

But  Chip  was  not  caught  so  easily. 

"I'll  go  if  you  will  ask  Aunt  Abby  also,"  she  an- 
swered, "not  otherwise." 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  responded  graciously, 
"that  is  understood." 

And  still  unruffled  by  this  parting  evidence  of 
distrust,  he  bowed  himself  away. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

"  A  girl  with  a  new  ring  allus  hez  trouble  with  her  hair." 

—  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

As  might  be  expected,  Chip  gave  Aunt  Abby  a  full 
recital  of  her  morning's  episode  as  soon  as  she  entered 
the  house,  and  with  it  her  comments  upon  this 
smooth-spoken  young  man. 

"He  reeled  off  flattery  by  the  yard,"  she  said, 
"and  no  matter  how  I  took  it,  or  how  sharply  I  set 
him  back,  he  kept  at  it.  The  way  he  piled  it  on 
was  almost  funny,  just  as  though  he  thought  I  be- 
lieved it.  Of  course  I  didn't,  not  a  word,  and  what's 
more  I  wouldn't  trust  him  farther  than  I  could  see 
him.  He's  got  shifty  eyes,  and  Cy  once  told  me 
never  to  believe  a  man  with  such  eyes.  He  wants  me 
to  go  sailing  with, him  to-morrow,  and  I  said  I  would 
go  if  you  were  asked.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  go, 
however." 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Aunt  Abby,  severely, 
"and  his  asking  you  in  such  a  way  was  almost  an 
insult.  If  he  had  meant  well,  he  would  have  said 
he  was  taking  other  friends  out  and  would  have 

358 


VERA  RAYMOND  359 

asked  us  both  to  join  them.  I  should  not  have  con- 
sented to  that  even,  however.  These  summer 
people  are  not  our  sort,  and  to  accept  such  favors 
from  them  is  to  put  ourselves  in  a  fair  way  of  being 
laughed  at.  I  would  advise,  also,  that  you  have  no 
more  to  say  to  this  young  man.  It  will  not  reflect 
credit  upon  you  if  you  do." 

That  afternoon,  while  Chip  practised  upon  her 
banjo,  it  being  vacation  time,  Aunt  Abby  called  upon 
several  neighbors  with  news-gathering  intent.  She 
succeeded  to  the  fullest,  and  that  evening  related  it 
to  Chip. 

"This  Mr.  Goodnow  has  been  here  about  two 
weeks,"  she  said,  "and  is  boarding  at  Captain 
Perkins's.  He  came  in  a  small  steam  yacht  he 
claims  he  owns,  and  has  been  going  about  with  three 
ladies  who  are  stopping  at  the  Mix  House.  Two  of 
them  are  sisters,  the  Misses  Wilson,  and  a  Mrs. 
Simpson,  a  widow.  He  seems  the  most  devoted  to 
the  widow.  They  have  been  out  driving  quite  often, 
and  once  or  twice  she  has  been  sailing  with  him  alone. 
It's  all  right,  of  course,  only  she  being  a  good  deal 
older  than  he  is,  makes  it  seem  curious.  When  he 
calls  here  to-morrow,  as  I  suppose  he  will,  I'd  better 
see  him." 

He  called  quite  early  the  next  morning,  as  may  be 


360  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

guessed,  and  a  more  picture-book  yachtsman  Aunt 
Abby  never  set  eyes  upon.  His  white  duck  shoes, 
trousers,  and  cap,  white  flannel  coat,  dark  blue  silk 
shirt,  jaunty  sailor  tie  and  russet  belt,  all  completed 
an  attire  so  spick  and  span  that  it  seemed  that  he 
must  have  just  emerged  from  a  tailor  shop. 

But  Aunt  Abby  was  not  awed  overmuch.  She 
had  seen  his  like  before,  and  met  him  at  her  door 
with  serene  self-possession. 

"I  am  Mr.  Goodnow,"  he  explained  with  easy 
assurance,  "and  Miss  Raymond  has  kindly  consented 
to  accept  a  few  hours'  enjoyment  in  my  yacht  if  you 
will  also  honor  me."  And  he  bowed  again. 

"We  thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  Aunt  Abby  re- 
sponded stiffly,  "but  I  must  decline  for  us  both.  We 
should  hardly  care  to  accept  hospitalities  which  we 
could  not  return." 

"I  regret  it  very  much,"  he  answered  in  a  hurt 
tone,  "and  assure  you  I  am  the  one  to  feel  obligated." 
And  then,  as  Aunt  Abby  drew  back,  and  the  door 
began  to  close  very  slowly,  he  bowed  and  retreated 
in  good  order. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  thus  checkmated,  and  from 
now  on  he  began  to  watch  for  chances  to  intercept 
and  accost  Chip. 

It  was,  and  always  had  been,  a  part  of  her  nature 


VERA  RAYMOND  361 

to  be  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible,  and  since  the 
close  of  school  she  was  out  more  than  ever.  Some- 
what akin  to  Old  Cy  in  love  of  Nature,  the  fields, 
woods,  and  streams  had  always  attracted  her,  and 
at  Christmas  Cove  the  sea  added  a  new  charm  to 
which  she  yielded  nearly  every  pleasant  day.  And 
her  steps  led  her  far  and  wide. 

Down  to  the  seldom-used  wharf  to  watch  the  tide 
ebb  and  flow  between  its  mussel-coated  piles,  over 
the  broad-rippled  sands  of  the  cove  when  the  tide 
left  them  bare,  around  to  the  long,  rocky  barrier 
beyond  the  cove  where  the  sea  waves  dashed,  were 
her  favorite  strolls. 

The  next  afternoon  she  strayed  to  where  the  ocean 
spray  was  leaping.  She  had  scarce  reached  her 
favorite  lookout  spot,  a  shaded  cliff,  when  she  saw 
Goodnow  approaching. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  return  home  at  once,  the 
next  to  remain. 

She  did  not  fear  him,  he  seemed  such  an  effemi- 
nate, foppish  sort  of  man,  that  lithe  and  strong  as 
she  was,  she  felt  she  could  outrun  him,  or,  if  need 
be,  throw  him  into  the  sea.  And  so  she  waited,  cool 
and  indifferent.  Although  conscious  that  he  was 
nearing  her,  she  never  turned  her  head  until  he  was 
beside  her.  Then  she  looked  up. 


362  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  raising  his  hat, 
"but  may  I  share  this  cliff  with  you?"  And  he 
seated  himself  near. 

"It  isn't  mine,"  answered  Chip,  rather  ungra- 
ciously, "so  there's  no  need  to  ask." 

"But  every  lady  has  a  right  to  decline  a  gentle- 
man's company  wherever  she  is,"  he  responded  in 
his  usual  suave  tone.  "I  saw  you  coming  here, 
and  I'll  admit  I  was  bold  enough  to  follow." 

"And  what  for?"  she  answered,  in  her  blunt  way, 
"I  never  invited  you." 

"No,  you  didn't,  and  I  never  expect  you  will. 
But  you  are  such  a  saucy,  fascinating  little  wood- 
nymph  that  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  am  sorry,  though, 
that  you  and  your  worthy  aunt  refused  my  yacht 
yesterday.  I  wanted  an  opportunity  to  get  better 
acquainted  with  her  and  yourself  as  well,  and  thought 
that  a  good  way. 

"Do  you  love  the  ocean,"  he  continued,  as  Chip 
made  no  response,  "  and  is  this  village  your  real  home, 
or  do  you  reside  at  Peaceful  Valley?" 

"I  live  here  now,"  returned  Chip,  resolving  to  be 
brief  in  all  her  answers  and  hoping  he  would  betake 
himself  away. 

She  did  not  like  him,  nor  his  smooth,  polished 
speech.  She  felt  that  it  was  all  affected,  and  that 


VERA  RAYMOND  363 

at  heart  he  meant  no  good  toward  her.  Then  his 
failure  to  recognize  her  when  with  his  lady  friends 
still  rankled.  She  knew  well  enough  that  he  dared 
not  admit  acquaintance  with  a  calico-clad  country- 
girl  at  that  moment.  And  what  the  gossips  of 
Christmas  Cove  insinuated  about  him  and  this 
widow  awoke  her  contempt. 

Totally  unused  to  the  ways  of  fashionable  society 
as  she  was,  for  him  to  play  court  to  a  widow  evi- 
dently ten  or  fifteen  years  his  senior  seemed  un- 
natural. 

His  almost  nauseating  and  persistent  flattery  of 
herself  was  equally  objectionable.  All  this  flashed 
over  her  now  while  he  was  talking. 

"You  must  find  it  lonesome  here,"  he  said,  in 
response  to  her  admission;  "but  perhaps  you  have 
a  beau,  a  sweetheart,  somewhere,  whom  you  care 
for." 

Chip  colored  slightly,  but  made  no  answer. 

"I'm  sure  you  haven't  here,"  he  went  on,  "for 
I've  not  seen  an  eligible  fellow  native  to  this  village 
since  I  came."  He  paused  a  moment,  awaiting 
an  admission,  and  then  continued:  "How  do  you 
pass  the  time,  anyway,  and  isn't  life  here  monoto- 
nous? Don't  you  long  for  some  excitement,  some 
fun,  some  color  to  it  all?  I've  watched  these  vil- 


364  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

lagers  now  for  three  weeks  and  their  lives  seem  so 
prosy,  so  dead  slow,  it  is  painful.  They  get  up,  eat, 
chase  the  cows  and  chickens,  hoe  in  the  gardens, 
mow  hay,  and  every  blessed  woman  wears  the  same 
calico  gown  six  days  in  the  week.  Sundays  they 
all  spruce  up,  go  to  meeting,  and  the  next  week 
repeat  the  programme.  Isn't  it  so?" 

"I  presume  it  is,"  answered  Chip,  with  rising  ire; 
"but  if  folks  here  weren't  satisfied,  they  could  move 
away,  couldn't  they?  And  if  it's  all  so  dull,  what 
did  you  come  here  for?  Nobody  asked  you,  did 
they?" 

"No,"  he  responded,  laughing,  "no  one  did,  and 
no  one  will  miss  me  when  I  go  —  not  even  you.  The 
only  redeeming  feature  is  that  they  all  seem  willing 
to  take  my  money." 

"Would  you  stay  if  they  weren't,"  she  returned, 
still  more  hotly,  "would  you  sponge  on  us  folks  and 
sneer  at  us  as  well?" 

"Keep  cool,  my  dear  girl,"  he  answered  unruffled, 
"keep  cool,  and  let  your  lovely  hair  grow.  I'm  not 
sneering  at  you  or  any  one.  I  am  merely  stating 
facts.  To  us  who  live  in  the  whirl  of  city  life,  a  few 
weeks  here  is  a  delightful  change,  and  we  are  glad  to 
pay  well  for  it.  I  am  only  speaking  of  how  it  must 
seem  to  live  this  way  all  the  time." 


VERA  RAYMOND  365 

He  paused  a  moment,  watching  Chip's  face  turned 
half  away,  and  then  continued  persuasively:  "I 
am  sorry  you  are  so  ready  to  believe  ill  of  me  or  to 
think  I  am  sneering  at  all  things.  In  that  you  have 
changed  very  much  since  last  summer.  Then  you 
seemed  to  enjoy  talking  with  me ;  now  you  blaze  up 
into  wrath  at  my  pleasantry.  I  am  very  sorry  you 
feel  as  you  do.  I'd  like  to  be  better  friends  with 
you  if  possible,  otherwise  I  wouldn't  have  risked 
the  rebuff  I  received  from  your  excellent  aunt  yes- 
terday. I'd  like  very  much  to  call  on  you,  and 
nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to 
entertain  you  and  your  aunt  on  my  boat.  I  am  an 
idle  fellow,  I'll  admit,  with  nothing  to  do  but  spend 
my  time  and  money,  but  that  is  my  misfortune, 
and  you  ought  to  have  pity  on  me." 

And  so  this  smooth-tongued,  persuasive  talker 
ran  on  and  on  while  Chip,  fascinated,  in  spite  of  her 
dislike  of  him,  listened. 

More  than  that,  he  grew  eloquent  and  even  pa- 
thetic at  times  in  describing  his  hopes  and  ambitions 
in  life.  He  even  asserted  that  he  longed  to  live 
differently  and  to  become  a  useful  man,  instead  of 
an  idle  one.  It  was  all  hypocrisy,  of  course,  but 
Chip  was  scarce  able  to  detect  it,  and  lulled  by  his 
specious,  pleading  voice,  she  admitted  that  she  had 


366  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

no  real  reason  for  distrusting  or  disliking  him.  Also, 
that  she  would  enjoy  a  sail  on  his  boat,  and  would 
try  to  persuade  her  aunt  to  accept  another  in- 
vitation. 

This  especially  was  what  he  most  wanted,  for 
shrewd  schemer  that  he  was,  he  knew  that  if  he  could 
ingratiate  himself  with  this  guardian  aunt,  permis- 
sion to  call  must  follow,  and  with  that,  some  oppor- 
tunity to  make  a  conquest  of  this  simple  country 
girl. 

Sated  as  he  was  with  the  society  of  more  polished 
and  therefore  artificial  womanhood,  blase  to  all  the 
purities  of  life  and  refined  society,  a  roue*  and  rake 
conversant  with  all  vice,  this  fearless,  wholesome, 
yet  unsophisticated  girl  who  seemed  like  a  breath 
from  the  pine  woods,  attracted  him  as  no  other 
could. 

And  now  he  had  her  almost  spellbound  on  this 
lonely  shore,  with  the  sea  murmuring  at  their  feet 
and  the  cool  winds  whispering  in  the  pine  trees 
shading  them. 

It  was  Don  Juan  and  Haidee  over  again,  only 
this  Juan  was  a  more  selfish  and  heartless  one,  cal- 
culating on  the  ruin  of  this  wood-born  flower  without 
thought  of  consequences. 

He  made  one  mistake,  however,  after  he  had  lulled 


VERA  RAYMOND  367 

her  into  almost  believing  him  to  be  both  honest  and 
worthy,  —  he  sneered  at  religion. 

"All  that  people  go  to  church  for  is  to  see  and  be 
seen,  ladies  especially,"  he  said.  "They  live  to 
dress  and  show  off  their  new  gowns  and  hats,  and 
were  it  not  for  the  chance  church-going  gives  them, 
not  one  parson  in  a  hundred  would  have  a 
corporal's  guard  for  audience.  As  for  the  preach- 
ing, not  one  in  ten  understands  a  word  of  it,  and 
most  of  those  who  understand  fail  to  believe  it.  I 
don't,  I  am  sure.  I  consider  a  minister  is  a  man 
who  talks  to  earn  his  money.  A  few  old  tabbies, 
of  course,  are  sincere  and  believe  in  prayer  and  all 
that  sort  of  foolishness,  but  the  rest  only  make 
believe  they  do.  There  may  be  a  God  and  maybe 
there  isn't  —  I  don't  know.  I  doubt  it,  however. 
As  for  the  hereafter,  that  is  all  moonshine.  When 
we  go,  that  is  the  end  of  us." 

"And  so  you  don't  believe  in  spirits  and  a  future 
life,"  answered  Chip,  with  sudden  defiance.  "Well, 
I  do,  and  I  know  that  people  have  souls  that  live 
again,  for  I've  seen  them,  hundreds  of  times.  As 
for  all  church-going  people  being  hypocrites,  that's 
a  lie,  and  I  know  better.  The  best  woman  I  ever 
knew  believed  in  praying,  and  so  did  my  mother,, 
and  I  won't  hear  them  called  such  a  name." 


368  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

It  was  Chip,  blazing  up  again,  in  defence  of  her 
own  opinions,  and  this  smooth-spoken  fellow  saw 
his  mistake  on  the  instant. 

"Oh,  well,  you  may  be  right,"  he  admitted  at 
once.  "I  wasn't  speaking  of  all  womankind  —  only 
the  fashionable  ones  whom  I  know.  As  for  soul  life, 
I  want  to  believe  as  you  do,  of  course,  and  wish  you 
would  convince  me  that  it  is  true."  And  so  peace 
was  restored,  and  once  more  the  lullaby  of  his  woo- 
ing talk  began. 

For  two  hours  he  spun  to  Chip  the  web  of  his 
blandishments,  and  then  the  sun  warned  her,  and 
she  rose  to  go. 

"It  would  be  delightful  to  escort  you  home,"  he 
said,  "but  I  fear  I'd  better  not.  Your  aunt  might 
see  us  returning,  and  scold  you.  Now  if  you  will 
meet  me  here  again  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  try  to 
convince  me  that  there  is  a  future  life,  I  shall  be  most 
happy.  Will  you?" 

But  Chip  was  alert. 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  shall,"  she  responded  bluntly; 
"I  am  not  running  after  you  —  not  a  step.  As  for 
what  you  believe  or  don't  believe,  that  isn't  my  look- 
out," and  with  an  almost  uncivil  "Good  day,  sir," 
she  left  him. 

The  farther  away  she  got  from  this  snakelike 


VERA  RAYMOND  369 

charmer,  the  more  an  intuitive  belief  in  his  real 
intentions  possessed  her.  She  was  unskilled  in  the 
fine  art  of  conversation,  had  only  the  inborn  purity  of 
her  thoughts  to  protect  her;  and  yet  .she  half  read 
this  specious  flatterer,  and  felt,  rather  than  realized, 
his  baseness. 

A  change  in  her  own  convictions  that  now  served 
as  a  mantle  of  protection  against  his  persuasions  had 
come  to  her  during  these  dreamy  hours  by  the  sea. 
Accepting  at  first  Old  Tomah's  superstitions,  she 
had  been  led  to  contemplate  the  great  question  of 
future  life  and  the  existence  of  God.  Aunt  Com- 
fort's unselfish  character,  combined  with  perfect 
faith  in  the  Supreme  Power,  had  had  its  influence. 
Angle's  kindness  and  that  first  prayer  Chip  had 
heard  in  the  tent  were  not  lost.  Aunt  Abby's  con- 
sistent belief  and  devotion  to  duty  also  had  had  its 
effect;  and  all  these  pertinent  examples,  com- 
bined with  the  impress  of  the  vast  ocean,  the  solitude 
of  this  lonely  shore,  and  the  echo  of  its  ceaseless 
billows,  had  awakened  true  veneration  in  Chip's 
heart,  and  convinced  her  that  some  Unseen  Power 
moved  all  human  impulse  and  controlled  all  human 
destiny. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

AFTER  Chip  had  run  away  from  Greenvale,  con- 
cealment of  her  name  and  all  else  had  forced  itself 
upon  her.  It  was  not  natural  for  her  to  deceive. 
She  had  kept  it  up  for  one  unhappy  year  only  under 
inward  protest,  which  ended  in  abject  confession  and 
tears.  Now  recalling  that  unpleasant  episode,  she 
made  haste  to  confess  her  long  conversation  with 
this  fluent  fellow. 

"  Mr.  Goodnow  followed  me  over  to  the  point  this 
afternoon,"  she  explained  that  evening  to  Aunt  Abby, 
"  and  talked  for  two  hours.  He  was  nice  enough,  but 
he  made  me  sick  of  him,  he  flattered  me  so  much." 

Aunt  Abby  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  sense  of 
alarm. 

"He  certainly  has  the  gift  of  impudence,  at  least," 
she  said,  "in  view  of  the  way  I  declined  his  invita- 
tion yesterday.  I  think  you'd  best  discontinue  your 
long  rambles  for  the  present,  or  until  he  leaves  here. 
He  is  not  our  sort.  He  is  not  even  a  friend  of  ours, 
and  if  people  see  you  together,  they  will  say  unkind 
things." 

370 


VERA  RAYMOND  371 

That  was  warning  enough  for  Chip,  and  from  that 
time  on  she  never  even  walked  down  to  the  village 
store  except  with  Aunt  Abby. 

A  curious  and  almost  ridiculous  espionage  fol- 
lowed, however,  for  a  week,  and  not  a  pleasant  after- 
noon passed  but  this  fellow  was  noticed  strolling 
somewhere  near  the  old  mill  or  past  the  house. 

Another  amazing  evidence  of  his  intent  was  re- 
ceived a  few  days  later,  in  the  shape  of  a  five-pound 
box  of  choicest  candies,  that  came  by  express  with 
his  card.  Aunt  Abby  opened  this  and  saw  the  card, 
and  the  next  day  she  commissioned  the  stage  driver 
to  deliver  the  box,  card  and  all,  to  Mr.  Goodnow  at 
his  boarding  house. 

A  long  and  adroitly  worded  letter  to  Chip  came  a 
day  later,  so  humble,  so  flattering,  and  so  importun- 
ing that  it  made  her  laugh. 

"I  think  that  fellow  must  have  gone  crazy,"  she 
said,  handing  the  letter  to  Aunt  Abby,  "he  runs  on 
so  about  how  he  can't  sleep  nights  from  thinking 
about  me.  He  says  that  he  must  go  away  next  week, 
,and  shall  die  if  he  can't  see  me  once  more.  What 
ails  him,  anyway  ?  " 

"Nothing,  except  evil  intentions,"  responded  Aunt 
Abby,  perusing  the  missive.  "He  must  think  you 
a  fool  to  believe  such  bosh,"  she  added  severely,  after 


372  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

finishing  it.  "Honest  love  doesn't  grow  like  a 
mushroom  in  one  night,  and  the  difference  between 
his  position  and  yours  gives  the  lie  to  all  he  says.  I 
hope  he  will  go  away  next  week,  and  never  come 
back." 

Whether  Chip's  studied  avoidance  of  him,  com- 
bined with  the  snubbing,  served  its  purpose,  or  he 
decided  his  quest  was  hopeless,  could  only  be  guessed, 
for  he  was  seen  no  more  near  the  mill,  and  the  next 
week  his  yacht  left  Christmas  Cove,  and  Chip  felt 
relieved. 

It  had  been  an  experience  quite  new  to  her,  and, 
in  spite  of  its  annoyance,  somewhat  exciting.  It 
also  served  another  purpose  of  more  value,  —  it  re- 
called Ray  to  her  by  sheer  force  of  contrast.  She 
had  felt  hurt  ever  since  the  night  she  left  Green  vale. 
She  had  meant  to  put  him  out  of  her  thoughts  and 
forget  all  the  silly  hours  and  promises  at  the  lake; 
and  yet  she  never  had  succeeded.  Instead,  her 
thoughts  turned  to  him  in  spite  of  her  pride. 

And  now,  contrasting  and  comparing  that  honest, 
manly  lad,  a  playmate  only,  and  yet  a  lover  as  well, 
with  this  polished,  fulsome,  flattering,  shifty-eyed 
fop,  who  sneered  at  everything  good,  only  made  Ray, 
with  his  far  different  ways,  seem  the  more  attractive. 

Then  conscience  began  to  smite  her.     She  had 


VERA  RAYMOND  373 

yielded  to  pride  and  put  him  away  from  her  thoughts. 
His  uncle  had  almost  pleaded  for  her  to  return  to 
Greenvale,  if  only  for  a  visit.  She  knew  Ray  had 
spent  weeks  in  searching  for  her ;  yet  not  once  in  all 
the  two  years  since  they  parted  had  she  sent  him  a 
line  of  remembrance. 

More  mature  now,  Chip  began  to  see  her  own 
conduct  as  it  was,  and  to  realize  that  she  had  been 
both  ungrateful  and  heartless;  but  she  could  not 
confess  it  to  any  one,  not  even  Aunt  Abby. 

Chip's  life  had  been  a  strange,  complex  series  of 
moods  of  peculiar  effect,  and  her  conduct  must  be 
judged  accordingly. 

First,  the  dense  ignorance  of  years  at  Tim's  Place, 
with  its  saving  grace  of  disgust  at  such  surroundings 
and  such  a  life.  Then  a  few  months  with  people  so 
different  and  so  kind  that  it  seemed  an  entrance  into 
heaven,  to  be  followed  by  weeks  of  a  growing  realiza- 
tion that  she  was  a  nobody,  and  an  outcast  unfit  for 
Greenvale. 

And  then  came  the  climax  of  all  this:  the  bitter 
sneers  of  Hannah,  Ray's  cool  neglect,  the  conscious- 
ness that  she  was  only  a  dependent  pauper,  and  then 
her  flight  into  the  world  and  away  from  all  that  stung 
her  like  so  many  whips. 

But  a  revulsion  of  feeling  was  coming.     Chip,  no 


374  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

longer  a  simple  child  of  the  wilderness,  was  realizing 
her  own  needs  and  her  own  nature.  Something 
broader  and  more  satisfying  than  school  life  and  the 
companionship  of  Aunt  Abby  was  needed;  yet  how 
to  find  it  never  occurred  to  her. 

With  September  came  Aunt  Abby's  annual  visit 
to  Peaceful  Valley.  A  few  days  before  their  de- 
parture, Chip  received  a  letter  which  was  so  unex- 
pected and  so  vital  to  her  feelings  that  it  must  be 
quoted. 

It  was  dated  at  the  little  village  of  Grindstone, 
directed  to  Vera  McGuire,  care  of  Judson  Walker, 
by  whom  it  was  forwarded  to  Christmas  Cove. 

"MY  DEAR  CHIP,"  it  began. 

"I  feel  that  you  will  not  care  to  hear  from  me,  and 
yet  I  must  write.  I  know  I  am  more  to  blame  than 
any  one  for  the  way  you  left  Greenvale,  and  that  you 
must  consider  me  a  foolish  boy,  without  much  cour- 
age, which  I  have  been,  and  I  realize  it  only  too  well 
now,  when  it  is  too  late.  But  I  am  more  of  a  man 
to-day,  I  hope,  and  sometime  I  shall  come  and  try  to 
obtain  your  forgiveness  for  being  so  blind.  No  one 
ever  has  been,  and  I  know  no  one  ever  will  be,  what 
you  are  to  me.  As  Old  Cy  says, '  Blessings  brighten  as 
they  vanish,'  and  now,  after  this  long  separation,  one 


VERA  RAYMOND  37$ 

word  and  one  smile  from  dear  little  Chip  would  .seem 
priceless  to  me,  and  I  shall  come  and  try  to  win  it 
before  many  months. 

"I  am  here  with  Uncle  Martin's  old  guide,  Levi. 
We  are  going  into  the  woods  to-morrow  to  gather 
gum  and  trap  until  spring.  I  have  hired  two  other 
men  to  help,  and  hope  to  do  well  and  make  some 
money.  I  think  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  Old 
Cy  was  here  this  summer  and  was  well.  He  does  not 
know  that  you  have  been  found,  and  is  still  hunting 
for  you.  Levi  told  me  that  the  people  here  are  much 
interested  in  you,  that  they  have  fixed  up  the  yard 
where  your  mother  is  buried,  and  he  put  up  a  small 
stone. 

"I  wish  I  could  hear  from  you,  but  there  is  no 
chance  now.  Please  try  to  forgive  a  foolish  boy  for 
being  stupid,  and  think  of  me  as  you  did  during 

those  happy  days  by  the  lake. 

"Good-bye, 

"RAY." 

How  every  word  of  this  half-boyish,  half-manly 
letter  was  read  and  re-read  by  Chip;  how  it  woke 
the  old  memories  of  the  wilderness  and  of  herself,  a 
ragged  waif  there;  and  how,  somehow,  in  spite  of 
pride  and  anger,  a  little  thrill  of  happiness  crept  into 
her  heart,  needs  no  explanation. 


376  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

But  she  was  not  quite  ready  yet  to  forgive  him, 
and  what  he  failed  to  say  when  he  might,  still  rankled 
in  her  feelings. 

But  Old  Cy,  that, kindly  soul,  so  like  a  father! 
Almost  did  she  feel  that  to  meet  him  would  be  worth 
more  than  to  see  any  one  else  in  the  world.  And 
to  think  he  was  still  hunting  for  her,  far  and  near ! 

And  now,  quite  unlike  most  young  ladies,  who 
deem  their  love  missives  sacred,  Chip  showed  hers 
to  Aunt  Abby. 

"It's  from  Raymond  Stetson,"  she  said,  rather 
bashfully,  "a  boy  who  was  in  the  woods  with  those 
people  who  were  kind  to  me,  and  we  became  very 
good  friends." 

Aunt  Abby  smiled  as  she  perused  its  contents. 

"And  so  he  was  the  cause  of  your  running  away 
from  Greenvale,"  she  said.  "Why  didn't  you  write 
him  a  note  of  thanks  after  you  learned  he  had  been 
searching  for  you  ?  I  think  he  deserved  that  much, 
at  least." 

"I  wouldn't  humble  myself,"  Chip  answered 
spiritedly,  "and  then  I  was  ashamed  to  let  any  one 
know  I  had  used  his  name.  I  hadn't  time  to  think 
what  name  to  give  when  Uncle  Jud  asked  me,  and 
his  was  the  first  that  came  to  mind,"  she  added 
naively. 


VERA  RAYMOND  377 

Aunt  Abby  laughed. 

"I  guess  Master  Stetson  won't  find  forgiveness 
hard  to  earn,"  she  said,  and  then  her  face  beamed  at 
the  disclosure  of  a  romance  while  she  read  the  letter 
a  second  time. 

But  there  was  more  to  tell,  as  Aunt  Abby  knew 
full  well,  and  now,  bit  by  bit,  she  drew  the  story  from 
Chip,  even  to  the  admission  of  the  tender  scenes 
between  these  two  lovers,  in  which  they  promised  to 
love  each  other  and  be  married. 

"It  was  silly,  I  suppose,"  Chip  continued  blush- 
ingly,  "  but  I  didn't  know  any  better  then,  and  I  was 
so  happy  that  I  didn't  think  about  it  at  all.  I  never 
had  a  beau  before,  you  see,  and  I  guess  I  acted 
foolishly.  Old  Cy  used  to  help  us,  too,  and  took  us 
away  so  we  could  have  a  chance  to  hold  hands  and 
act  silly.  I  was  so  lonesome,  too,  for  Ray  all  that 
winter  in  Greenvale,  and  nobody  knew  it.  I  walked 
a  mile  to  meet  the  stage  every  night  for  a  month,  to 
be  the  first  to  see  him  when  he  came.  I  guess  he 
must  have  thought  he  owned  me.  I  wouldn't  do  it 
now." 

Once  more  Aunt  Abby  laughed,  a  good,  hearty 
laugh,  and  then,  much  to  Chip's  astonishment,  she 
took  her  face  in  her  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"You  dear  little  goose,"  she  said,  "and  to  think 


378  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

you  ran  away  from  a  boy  you  cared  for  like  that !  I 
only  hope  he  is  good  enough  for  you,  for  I  can  see 
what  the  outcome  will  be." 

That  night  when  the  tea-table  had  been  cleared 
and  the  lamp  lit,  Aunt  Abby  once  more  began  her 
adroit  questioning  of  Chip;  but  this  time  it  was  of 
Old  Cy,  and  all  about  him.  For  an  hour,  Chip, 
nothing  loath,  recited  his  praises,  repeated  his  odd  say- 
ings, described  his  looks  and  ways  and  portrayed 
him  as  best  she  could,  while  Aunt  Abby  smiled 
content. 

"It  makes  me  feel  young  again  to  hear  your  story 
and  about  Cyrus,"  she  said  when  all  was  told.  "I 
was  just  sixteen  when  he  first  came  to  see  me.  He 
was  also  my  first  beau,  you  know.  I  should  judge 
he  must  have  changed  so  I  would  never  know  him, 
and  maybe  he  wouldn't  recognize  me.  Forty  years 
is  a  long  time !"  And  she  sighed. 

And  now  Aunt  Abby  closed  her  eyes,  let  fall  her 
knitting,  and  lapsed  into  bygones. 

No  longer  was  she  a  staid  and  matronly  widow  — 
not  young,  it  is  true,  yet  not  old,  but  with  rounded 
face,  few  wrinkles,  and  slightly  gray  hair.  Instead 
was  she  sweet  Abby  Grey  of  the  long  ago,  and  once 
more  the  belle  of  this  quiet  village  and  Bayport,  and 
the  leader  at  every  dance,  every  husking,  and  every 


VERA  RAYMOND  379 

party.  Once  more  she  primped  and  curled  her  hair, 
and  donned  her  best,  and  waited  her  sailor  boy's 
coming.  Once  more  she  heard  the  bells  jingle  and 
saw  the  stars  twinkle  as  they  sped  away  to  a  winter 
night's  dance  —  and  once  more  she  felt  the  sorrow 
of  parting,  the  long  years  of  waiting,  waiting,  waiting, 
and  at  last  the  numb  despair  and  final  conviction 
that  never  would  her  lover  return. 

And  now  he  was  still  alive,  though  a  wanderer, 
and  some  day  he  might  —  surely  would  come  to  see 
her,  just  once,  if  no  more. 

"Ah,  me,"  she  said,  rousing  herself  at  last  and 
looking  at  Chip's  smiling,  sunny  face,  "life  is  a  queer 
riddle,  and  we  never  know  how  to  guess  it." 

Then  she  sighed  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

"  The  milk  o'  human  kindness  'most  allus  turns  out  old 
cheese,  V  all  rind  at  that."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

SOME  sneering  critic  once  said  that  few  young  men 
ever  start  out  in  the  world  until  they  are  kicked  out, 
and  there  is  a  grain  of  truth  in  that  assertion.  It  is 
seldom  an  actual  kick,  however,  but  some  motive 
force  quite  as  compelling. 

In  Ray's  case  it  was  his  uncle's  assertion  that  if 
he  hoped  to  win  Chip  he  must  first  show  the  ability 
to  provide  a  home  for  her,  which  is  excellent  advice 
for  any  young  man  to  follow. 

"It  won't  be  a  pleasure  trip,"  Martin  said  when 
Ray  proposed  to  go  to  the  wilderness  and,  with  Levi 
and  a  couple  of  other  assistants,  make  a  business  of 
gum-gathering  and  trap-setting,  "but  you  can't  lose 
much  by  it.  You  are  welcome  to  the  camp;  Levi 
will  see  that  you  have  game  enough  to  eat,  and  boss 
the  expedition.  I  will  loan  you  five  hundred,  and 
with  what  you  have,  that  is  capital  enough  and  you 
ought  to  do  well.  It  would  be  better  if  Old  Cy  could 

380 


VERA  RAYMOND  381 

take  charge,  but  as  it  is,  you  must  go  it  alone."  And 
go  it  alone  Ray  did. 

Levi's  services  were  easily  secured.  Two  young 
fellows  whom  he  knew  were  hired  at  Greenvale. 
A  bateau  was  purchased,  together  with  more  traps 
and  supplies,  and  after  Ray  had  written  Chip  his 
plan,  the  party  started  for  Martin's  camp.  They 
had  been  established  there  a  month  and  were  doing 
well.  The  first  ice  had  begun  forming  in  shallow 
coves  when  one  afternoon,  who  should  enter  the  lake 
and  paddle  rapidly  across  but  Old  Cy. 

"Ye  can't  git  rid  o'  me  when  trappin's  goin'  on," 
he  said  cheerily,  as  Ray  and  Levi  met  him  at  the 
landing.  "I  fetched  into  the  settlement  kinder 
homesick  fer  the  woods  last  week.  I  heard  the  good 
news  'bout  Chip's  bein'  found  'n'  you'd  come  here 
fer  the  winter,  'n'  I  didn't  wait  a  minute  'fore  I  hired 
a  canoe  'n'  started."  And  then,  in  the  exuberance 
of  his  joy,  he  shook  hands  with  Ray  and  Levi  once 
more. 

That  evening,  Ray,  who  had  hard  work  to  keep 
the  secret  so  long,  told  Old  Cy  who  lived  in  Peaceful 
Valley. 

It  was  like  a  thunderbolt  out  of  a  clear  sky,  a  shock 
of  joyful  news  that  made  Old  Cy  gasp. 

"Why,  I  feel  jest  like  a  colt  once  more,"  he  said 


382  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

after  the  exclamation  stage  had  passed.  "An',  do 
ye  know,  boys,  I  felt  all  the  way  comin'  in  ez  though 
good  news  was  waitin'  fer  me.  I  'spose  'twas  from 
hearin'  Chip  was  all  right  ag'in." 

That  evening  was  one  that  none  who  were  in  that 
wildwood  camp  ever  forgot,  for  Old  Cy  was  the  cen- 
tral figure,  and  told  as  only  he  could  the  story  of  his 
year's  wandering  in  search  of  Chip. 

It  was  humorous,  pathetic,  and  tragic  all  in  one, 
and  a  tale  that  held  its  listeners  spellbound  for  three 
delightful  hours. 

"I  had  dogs  set  on  me,  huidreds  on  'em,"  Old 
Cy  said,  in  conclusion,  "an'  I  never  knew  afore  how 
many  kinds  V  sizes  o'  dogs  thar  was  in  this  world. 
I  uster  think  thar  warn't  more'n  two  dozen  or  so 
kinds.  I  know  now  thar's  two  million  'n'  a  few 
more  I  didn't  wait  to  count.  I  got  'rested  a  few 
times  on  account  o'  not  havin'  visible  means  o'  sup- 
port. I've  been  hauled  over  the  coals  by  doctors 
tryin'  to  make  me  out  a  lunatic,  'n'  I'd  'a'  done  time 
in  jail  if  I  hadn't  had  money  to  show.  I  tell  ye,  boys, 
this  is  an  awful  'spicious  world  fer  strangers,  'n'  the 
milk  o'  human  kindness  is  mostly  old  cheese,  'n'  all 
rind  at  that.  I  had  a  little  fun,  too,  mixed  in  with 
all  the  trouble,  'n'  one  woman  who  owned  a  place 
where  I  'plied  for  lodgin'  jest  'bout  told  me  she'd  be 


VERA  RAYMOND  383 

willin'  to  marry  me  if  I'd  stay  'n'  work  the  farm.  She 
had  red  hair,  hard  eyes,  'n'  bossy  sort  o'  ways,  an* 
that's  a  dangerous  combination.  I  watched  my 
chance  when  she  wa'n't  lookin',  'n'  lit  out  middlin' 
lively." 

And  now  life  at  this  wilderness  camp,  less  re- 
strained than  when  womankind  were  here,  became 
one  of  work,  and  persistent,  steady,  no-time-wasted 
work  at  that.  Martin  had  said  that  Levi  could  boss 
matters,  but  it  was  Ray  who  assumed  management 
instead.  Two  years  and  changed  him  almost  from 
boy  to  man.  His  new  ambition  was  the  controlling 
power.  He  was  here  to  make  his  mark,  as  it  were, 
and  the  half-hearted,  boyish  interest  in  work  had 
changed  into  a  tireless  leadership.  Then,  too,  an 
unspoken,  tacit  interest  in  his  ambition  was  felt  by 
those  who  helped.  They  knew  what  he  was  striving 
for,  and  that  Chip  was  the  ultimate  object.  Her 
history,  known  as  it  now  was  to  all  who  came  into 
the  wilderness,  influenced  these  woodsmen.  She 
had  been  of  them  and  from  them,  and  as  an  entire 
village  will  gather  to  help  at  a  house-raising,  so  these 
three,  Levi  and  the  two  helpers,  now  felt  the  same 
incentive. 

Success  usually  comes  to  all  who  strive  for  it,  and 
now,  with  four  willing  workers  to  aid  him,  Ray  was 


384  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

rapidly  making  a  success  of  this  venture.  Old  Cy, 
the  most  valuable  assistant,  was  indefatigable.  He 
not  only  kept  the  larder  well  supplied  with  game, 
but  tended  and  set  traps,  worked  in  the  woods  with 
the  rest  between  times,  and  his  cheerful  optimism 
and  droll  humor  bridged  many  a  stormy  day  and 
shortened  many  a  weary  tramp.  And  he  seemed  to 
grow  younger  in  this  new,  helpful  life  for  others. 
His  eyes  were  bright,  his  step  elastic,  his  spirits 
buoyant,  his  strength  tireless. 

With  Chip  safe  and  provided  for,  with  Ray  suc- 
ceeding in  manhood's  natural  ambition,  Old  Cy 
saw  his  heart's  best  hopes  nearing  fruition,  and  for 
these  two  and  in  these  two  all  his  interest  centred. 

Only  once  was  the  bond  of  feeling  between  Ray 
and  Chip  referred  to  by  Old  Cy,  and  then  in  response 
to  a  wish  of  Ray's  that  he  might  hear  from  her. 

"I  don't  think  ye've  cause  to  worry  now,  arter 
ye've  sent  her  word  what  ye're  doin'  'n'  who  for," 
he  answered.  "Chip's  true  blue,  not  one  o'  the 
fickle  sort,  'n'  once  she  keers  fer  a  man,  she  won't 
give  him  up  till  he's  married  or  dead.  I  think  ye'd 
orter  sent  her  word  sooner,  —  ye  know  she  run  'way 
out  o'  spunk,  —  but  when  ye  go  to  her  like  a  man  'n* 
say,  '  I've  been  workin'  'n'  waitin'  fer  ye  all  the  time,' 
thar  won't  be  no  quarrellin'." 


VERA  RAYMOND  385 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  responded  Ray, 
soberly.  "From  what  Uncle  Martin  said,  my 
chance  is  gone  with  Miss  Chip,  and  I  don't  blame 
her  for  feeling  so.  Like  every  young  fellow,  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  she  was  in  love  with  me 
and  ready  to  fall  into  my  arms  on  call.  Then  I 
hadn't  any  plans  in  life,  anyway,  and,  like  a  fool, 
believed  it  made  no  difference  to  her.  To  mix 
matters  up  still  more,  Hannah  crowded  herself 
into  our  affairs  and  said  things  to  Chip,  with  the 
result  that  Chip  got  mad,  ran  away,  and  you  know 
the  rest." 

"Wai,"  asserted  Old  Cy,  his  eyes  twinkling, 
"the  time  to  hug  a  gal  is  when  she's  willin',  'n'  ye 
orter  spunked  up  that  night  'fore  ye  come  away 
'n'  told  her  ye  was  callatin'  to  make  yer  fortin  in 
the  woods,  an'  that  ye  wanted  her  to  wait  'n'  share 
it  —  then  hugged  'n'  kissed  her  a  little  more  by 
way  o'  bindin'  the  bargain,  an'  —  knowin'  that  gal 
ez  I  do,  she'd  fought  Hannah,  tooth  'n'  nail,  'n' 
walked  through  fire  'n'  brimstun  fer  ye.  I 
think,  'stead  o'  hidin'  herself  fer  two  years,  an' 
changin'  her  name,  she'd  'a'  tramped  clear  to  Grind- 
stun  jest  to  tell  ye  her  troubles,  'n',  if  need  be,  she'd 
'a'  starved  fer  ye.  I  tell  ye,  boy,  wimmin  like 
her  is  scarce  in  this  world,  'n'  when  ye  find  one 


386  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

young  V  pretty  ez  she  is,  hang  on  to  her  an'  hang 
hard." 

"I  know  it  now  well  enough,"  returned  Ray, 
ruefully;  "but  that  don't  help  matters.  Then  that 
fortune  you  found  for  her  makes  my  case  all  the 
worse,  and  Chip  quite  independent." 

"It  do,  it  do,"  chuckled  Old  Cy,  as  if  glad  of 
it,  "an'  all  the  more  need  o'  you  hustlin'.  It's  a 
case  o'  woodchuck  with  ye  now.  But  don't  git 
discouraged.  Jest  dig.  Chip's  worth  it,  ten  times 
over,  'n'  no  man  ever  worked  to  win  a  woman  'thout 
bein'  bettered  by  it." 

It  was  terse  and  homely  advice,  and  not  only 
convinced  Ray  that  he  had  neglected  one  whom  he 
now  felt  meant  home,  wife,  happiness,  and  all 
that  life  might  mean  for  him,  but  made  him  real- 
ize that  all  possible  striving  and  self-denial  must 
be  made  in  atonement.  With  whom  and  what 
sort  of  people  Chip  had  found  asylum,  he  knew 
not.  What  influence  they  would  have  upon  her 
feelings  was  an  equally  unknown  matter;  and 
worse  than  that,  the  ogre  of  another  suitor  for 
Chip's  favor  now  entered  Ray's  calculations,  and 
the  slang  truism,  "There  are  others,"  was  with 
him  every  waking  moment  —  a  much-deserved 
punishment,  all  womankind  will  say. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

ONE  day  while  Aunt  Abby  and  Chip  were  enjoy- 
ing the  newly  furnished  home  of  Uncle  Jud,  a  capa- 
cious carriage  drawn  by  a  handsome  pair  of  horses 
halted  there  and  Martin  and  Angie  alighted. 

"We  are  taking  a  cross-country  drive  for  an 
outing,"  he  explained,  after  Angie  had  kissed 
Chip  tenderly  and  greetings  had  been  exchanged. 
"We  have  waited  for  you,  Miss  Runaway,  to 
come  and  visit  us,"  he  added,  turning  to  Chip, 
"until  we  couldn't  wait  any  longer  and  so  came  to 
look  for  you.  We  have  also  some  news  that  may 
interest  you.  Old  Cy  has  been  heard  from  at 
last.  He  spent  a  year  looking  for  you.  He  has 
now  gone  into  the  woods,  to  my  camp,  where  Ray 
located  for  the  winter,  and  when  spring  comes,  I 
can  guess  where  they  will  head  for." 

How  welcome  this  news  was  to  Chip,  her  face 
fully  indicated  ;  but  neither  Martin  nor  Angie 
realized  how  much  or  for  what  reason  it  interested 
this  soft-voiced,  gracious  lady  whom  Chip  called 
Aunt  Abby.  They  knew  Uncle  Jud  was  Old  Cy's 

387 


388  THE   GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

brother  and  that  they  had  once  been  sailors  from 
Bayport,  but  the  long-ago  romance  of  Aunt  Abby's 
life  was  unknown  to  them. 

And  now  ensued  a  welcome  to  the  callers  such 
as  only  Uncle  Jud  and  Aunt  Mandy  could  offer. 

"We  sorter  feel  we  robbed  ye  o'  Vera,"  Uncle 
Jud  explained,  "though  'twa'n't  any  intention  on 
our  part,  an'  so  ye  must  gin  us  some  chance  to 
make  amends.  We  callate  'twa'n't  no  fault  o* 
yourn,  either,  only  one  o'  them  happenin's  that 
was  luck  for  us." 

That  evening  was  one  long  to  be  remembered 
by  all  who  were  present,  for  Chip's  history,  as 
told  by  Martin  and  Angie,  was  the  entertaining 
topic,  and  its  humorous  side  was  made  the  most 
of  by  Martin.  Chip  was  in  no  wise  annoyed  by 
Martin's  fun-making,  either.  Instead,  conscious 
of  the  good-will  and  affection  of  the  friends  who 
had  rescued  her  from  the  wilderness,  she  rather 
enjoyed,  it  and  laughed  heartily  at  Martin's  de- 
scription of  various  incidents,  especially  her  first 
appearance  in  their  camp,  and  the  language  she 
used. 

"I  couldn't  help  swearing,"  she  explained.  "I 
never  had  heard  much  except  'cuss'  words.  I 
think  also  now,  as  I  recall  my  life  at  Tim's  Place, 


VERA  RAYMOND  389 

I  would  never  have  dared  that  desperate  mode  of 
escape  had  I  not  been  hardened  by  such  a  life. 
I  wish  I  could  see  Old  Tomah  once  more,"  she 
added  musingly,  "and  I'd  like  to  send  him  some 
gift.  He  was  the  best-hearted  Indian  I  ever  saw 
or  heard  of,  and  his  queer  teachings  about  spites 
and  how  they  rewarded  us  for  good  deeds  and 
punished  us  for  evil  ones  was  no  harm,  for  it  set 
me  thinking.  The  one  thought  that  encouraged 
me  most  during  those  awful  days  and  nights  alone 
in  the  woods  was  the  belief  that  among  the  spites 
which  I  was  sure  followed  me  was  my  mother's 
soul.  I've  never  changed  in  my  belief,  either, 
and  shall  always  feel  that  she  guided  me  to  your 
camp." 

Uncle  Jud  also  obtained  his  share  of  fun  at 
Chip's  expense,  describing  his  finding  of  her  with 
humorous  additions. 

"She  was  all  beat  out  that  night  I  found  her 
on  top  o'  Bangall  Hill,  'n'  yet  when  I  asked  her  if 
she'd  run  away  from  some  poor  farm,  she  was 
ready  to  claw  my  eyes  out,  an'  dunno's  I  blame 
her.  I  was  innocent,  too,  fer  I  really  s'posed  she 
had." 

Martin's  visit  at  this  hospitable  home  was  not 
allowed  to  terminate  for  a  week,  for  visitors  sel- 


390  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

dom  came  here,  and  Uncle  Jud,  as  big  a  boy  as 
his  brother  when  the  chance  came,  planned  all 
sorts  of  trips  and  outings  to  entertain  them,  and 
quite  characteristic  affairs  they  were,  too. 

One  day  they  drove  to  a  wood-bordered  pond 
far  up  the  valley,  fished  a  few  hours  for  pickerel 
and  perch,  and  had  a  fish  fry  and  picnic  dinner. 

The  next  day  they  visited  a  strange,  romantic 
grotto  up  in  the  mountains,  known  as  the  Wolf's 
Den,  and  here  a  table  was  set,  broiled  chicken, 
sweet  corn,  and  such  toothsome  fare  formed  the 
meal,  with  nut-gathering  for  amusement. 

Squirrel  and  partridge  shooting  also  furnished 
Martin  a  little  excitement.  When  he  and  Angie 
insisted  that  they  must  leave,  both  host  and  hostess 
showed  genuine  regret.  A  few  remarks  made  by 
Angie  to  her  former  protegee,  in  private,  the  last 
evening  of  this  visit,  may  be  quoted. 

"I  must  insist,  my  dear  child,"  she  said,  "that 
you  make  us  a  visit  in  the  near  future.  You  left 
us  under  an  entirely  false  impression  and  it  has 
grieved  me  more  than  you  can  imagine.  There 
was  never  a  word  of  truth  in  anything  that  Hannah 
said.  She  was  spiteful  and  malicious  and  desired 
to  get  even  with  you  for  a  hurt  to  her  pride.  We 
had  no  thought  of  hurrying  away  to  the  woods 


VERA  RAYMOND  39! 

to  separate  you  and  Ray  for  any  reason  whatever. 
Of  course,  as  you  must  know,  I  had  no  suspicion 
of  any  attachment  between  you,  and  if  I  had,  I 
certainly  should  not  have  tried  to  break  it  off  in 
that  way.  That  is  a  matter  that  concerns  only 
you  and  him.  My  own  life  experience  shows  that 
first  love  is  the  wisest  and  best,  and  while  you  were 
both  too  young  then  for  an  engagement,  you  must 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  had  no  wish  to 
interfere. " 

And  so  the  breach  was  healed. 

This  visit  of  the  Frisbies  to  Peaceful  Valley 
also  awakened  something  of  repentance  in  Chip's 
mind,  and  more  mature  now,  it  occurred  to  her 
that  leaving  Greenvale  as  she  did,  was,  after  all, 
childish. 

Then  Angie's  part  in  this  drama  of  her  life  now 
returned  to  Chip  in  a  new  light.  Once  she  began 
to  reflect,  her  self-accusation  grew  apace  and  her 
repentance  as  well.  Now  she  began  to  see  herself 
as  she  was  at  Tim's  Place. 

"I  think  I  treated  my  Greenvale  friends  very 
ungratefully,"  she  said  to  Aunt  Abby  one  evening 
after  they  had  returned  to  Christmas  Cove  once 
more,  "and  what  Mrs.  Frisbie  said  to  me  has 
made  me  realize  it.  I  know  now  that  few  would 


392  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

have  done  what  she  did  for  me.  I  was  an  igno- 
rant, dirty,  homeless  creature  and  no  relation  of 
hers,  and  yet  she  took  charge  of  me,  bought  me 
clothes,  paid  all  my  expenses  going  to  Greenvale, 
clothed  me  there,  and  always  treated  me  nicely 
without  my  even  asking  for  it. 

"The  Frisbies  certainly  ran  some  risk  by  keeping 
me  at  their  cabin  when  they  knew  that  half-breed 
was  after  me.  I  don't  know  why  they  should 
have  done  all  this.  I  was  nothing  to  them.  And 
yet  when  I  recall  the  night  I  stumbled  into  their 
camp,  how  Mrs.  Frisbie  dressed  me  in  her  own 
clothes,  shared  her  tent  with  me,  and  even  prayed 
for  me,  I  feel  ashamed  to  think  of  what  I  have 
done.  I  did  think  that  Mrs.  Frisbie  despised  me 
from  what  Hannah  said.  I  know  now  that  I  was 
wrong,  and  running  away  as  I  did,  was  very  un- 
grateful." 

"I  think  it  was,  myself,"  responded  Aunt  Abby, 
"and  yet  believing  as  you  did,  Mrs.  Frisbie  ought 
not  to  blame  you.  I  don't  think  she  does,  either. 
She  seems  a  very  sensible  woman,  and  I  like  her. 
You  made  your  mistake  in  not  confiding  in  her 
more.  You  should  have  gone  to  her  as  you  would 
to  a  mother,  in  the  first  place,  and  told  her  just 
what  Hannah  had  said  to  you  and  how  you  felt 


VERA  RAYMOND  393 

about  it.  To  brood  over  such  matters  and  imagr 
ine  the  worst  possible,  is  unwise  in  any  one.  I 
think  from  what  you  have  told  me,  that  this  person 
who  sneered  against  you  so  much  must  have  had 
a  spite  against  you." 

"Hannah  was  jealous,  I  know,"  Chip  inter- 
rupted, smiling  at  the  recollection,  "and  I  hurt 
her  feelings  because  I  asked  her  why  she  didn't 
shave." 

"Didn't  shave!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Abby,  wide- 
eyed,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  she  has  whiskers,  you  see,"  laughed 
Chip,  "almost  as  much  as  some  men  —  a  nice 
little  mustache  and  some  on  her  chin.  I  told 
her  the  next  day  after  I  got  there  I  thought  she 
was  a  man  dressed  as  a  woman.  I  snickered,  too, 
I  remember,  when  I  said  it,  for  she  looked  so  comi- 
cal —  like  a  goat,  almost  —  and  then  I  asked  her 
why  she  didn't  shave.  I  guess  she  laid  it  up  against 
me  ever  after." 

"  She  revenged  herself  amply,  it  seems,"  answered 
Aunt  Abby. 

When  Christmas  neared,  and  with  it  a  vacation 
for  Chip,  new  impulses  came  to  her:  a  desire  to- 
visit  Greenvale  once  more  and  make  amends  as 
best  she  could  to  her  friends  there;  and  her  gift- 


394  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

giving  desire  was  quickened  by  the  coming  holi- 
days. She  now  felt  that  she  had  ample  means  to 
gratify  this  latter  wish.  Day  by  day,  since  meet- 
ing Angie  again,  her  sense  of  obligation  had  in- 
creased, and  now  it  was  in  her  power  at  Christmas- 
tide  to  repay  at  least  a  little  of  the  debt. 

Others  were  also  included  in  this  generous  proj- 
ect: Uncle  Jud,  Aunt  Mandy,  her  foster-mother, 
Aunt  Abby,  as  well;  and  then  there  was  Old  Cy, 
whom  most  of  all  she  now  desired  to  make  glad. 
That  was  impossible,  however.  He  was  still  an 
absent  wanderer,  and  so,  as  it  ever  is  and  ever 
will  be,  some  thread  of  regret,  some  note  of  sorrow, 
must  be  woven  into  all  joys. 

A  rapid  and  almost  wonderful  growth  of  this 
yule-tide  impulse  now  swept  over  Chip,  so  much 
so  that  it  must  be  told.  At  first  it  took  shape  in 
the  intended  purchase  of  comparative  trifles,  —  a 
fishing-rod  for  Uncle  Jud,  a  pipe  for  Martin,  gloves 
for  Aunt  Abby,  and  so  on.  Then  as  that  seem- 
ingly vast  fortune,  now  hers  to  spend,  occurred  to 
Chip,  and  her  sense  of  obligation  as  well,  the 
intended  gifts  increased  in  proportion  until  a 
costly  picture  of  some  camp  or  wildwood  scene 
for  Angie  and  a  valuable  watch  for  Miss  Phinney 
were  decided  upon. 


VERA  RAYMOND  395 

Her  plans  as  to  how  to  obtain  these  presents 
also  took  shape.  Riverton  was  the  only  place 
where  they  could  be  obtained.  To  that  village 
she  would  go  first,  obtain  the  money  needed,  devote 
one  entire  day  to  making  her  purchases,  and 
then  go  on  to  Greenvale  and  astonish  these  good 
friends  from  whom  she  was  once  so  eager  to  escape. 

It  was  all  a  most  delightful  episode  which  was 
now  anticipated  by  Chip.  Again  and  again  she 
lived  it  over,  especially  her  arrival  in  Greenvale, 
and  how  like  a  Lady  Bountiful  she  would  present 
her  gifts  to  her  friends. 

So  eager  was  she  thus  to  make  some  compensa- 
tion to  them  that  lessons  became  irksome,  the  day 
seemed  weeks  in  length,  and  she  could  scarce  sleep 
when  bedtime  came. 

But  the  slow  days  dragged  by  at  last,  and  then 
Chip,  happier  than  ever  before  in  her  life,  dressed 
in  her  best,  bade  Aunt  Abby  good-bye  and  started 
on  her  journey  alone. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

"  A  man  braggin'  gits  riled  if  ye  try  V  choke  him  off."  . 

—  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

RIVERTON,  less  provincial  than  Greenvale,  was 
a  village  of  some  two  thousand  inhabitants.  A 
few  brick  blocks,  with  less  pretentious  wooden 
buildings,  formed  a  nucleus  of  stores.  A  brown- 
stone  bank,  four  churches,  two  hotels,  the 
Quaboag  House  and  the  Astor  House  were  inter- 
mingled among  these,  and  a  railroad  with  two 
trains  in  each  direction  a  day  added  life  and  inter- 
est to  the  place.  Each  of  the  hotels  sent  a  con- 
veyance to  meet  every  train,  with  a  loud-voiced 
emissary  to  announce  the  fact  of  free  transporta- 
tion. In  each  hostelry  a  bar  flourished,  and  like 
rival  clubs,  each  had  its  afternoon  and  evening 
gathering  of  loafers  who  swapped  yarns  and  gossip, 
smoked  and  chewed  incessantly,  and  contributed 
little  else  to  support  the  establishments.  Three 
times  daily,  at  meal  hours,  each  of  the  rival  land- 
lords banged  a  discordant  gong  in  his  front  door- 
way, without  apparent  result. 

396 


VERA  RAYMOND  397 

At  about  eleven  in  the  forenoon  each  week- 
day in  summer,  Uncle  Joe  Barnes  on  his  lumber- 
ing two-horse  stage,  arrived  from  Greenvale, 
paused  at  the  post-office,  threw  off  a  mail-pouch, 
thence  around  to  the  Quaboag  House  stable,  and 
cared  for  his  horses.  At  two  he  was  ready  for  the 
return  trip  and  mounting  his  lofty  seat,  he  again 
drove  to  the  front  of  the  hotel,  shouting  "All 
aboard ! "  dismounted  to  assist  lady  passengers, 
but  let  masculine  ones  do  their  own  climbing,  and 
after  halting  to  receive  a  mail-bag,  again  departed 
on  his  return  trip. 

A  certain  monotonous  regularity  was  apparent 
in  every  move  and  every  act  and  function  of  vil- 
lage life  in  Riverton.  At  precisely  seven  o'clock 
each  morning  the  two  landlords  appeared  simul- 
taneously and  banged  their  gongs.  At  twelve 
and  six,  this  was  repeated.  At  eight  o'clock  the 
three  principal  storekeepers  usually  entered  their 
places  of  business;  at  nine,  and  while  the  academy 
bell  was  ringing  near  by,  every  village  doctor  might 
be  seen  starting  out.  At  ten  exactly,  Dwight 
Bennett,  the  cashier  of  the  bank,  unlocked  its 
front  door,  and  the  two  hotel  'buses  invariably 
started  so  nearly  together  that  they  met  at  the  first 
turn  going  stationward.  Even  the  four  church 


398  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

clocks  had  the  same  habit,  and  it  was  often  related 
that  a  stranger  there,  a  travelling  man,  on  his  first 
visit,  made  an  amusing  discovery. 

"What  kind  of  a  fool  clock  have  you  got  in  this 
town?"  he  said  to  Sam  Gates,  the  landlord  of  the 
Quaboag,  next  morning  after  his  arrival.  "I 
went  to  bed  in  good  season  last  night  an'  just  got 
asleep  when  I  heard  it  strike  thirty-two.  I  dozed 
off  an'  the  next  I  knew  it  began  clanging  again, 
and  I  counted  forty-four.  What  sort  of  time  do 
you  keep  here,  anyway?  Do  you  run  your  town 
by  the  multiplication  table?" 

The  half-dozen  chronic  loafers  who  met  every 
afternoon  in  the  Quaboag  House  office  arrived 
in  about  the  same  order,  smoked,  drank,  told 
their  yarns,  gathered  all  the  gossip,  and  departed 
at  nearly  the  same  moment.  Their  evening  visits 
partook  of  the  same  clocklike  regularity. 

These  of  the  old  guard  were  also  dressed  much 
the  same,  and  "slouchy"  best  describes  it.  Gray 
flannel  shirts  in  winter  or  summer  alike.  Collars, 
cuffs,  and  ties  were  never  seen  on  them,  though 
patches  were,  and  as  for  shaving  or  hair-cutting, 
a  few  shaved  once  a  week,  some  never  did,  and 
semi-annual  hair-cuts  were  a  fair  average. 

The  worst  sinner  in  this  respect,  Luke  Atwater, 


VERA  RAYMOND  399 

occasionally  called    "Lazy  Luke,"   never  had  his 
beard  shortened  but  once,  and  that  was  due  to  its 

being    burnt    off  while    he  was    fighting    a  brush 

•'  • 

fire  in  spring. 

It  was  related  of  him,  and  believed  by  many, 
that  once  upon  a  time  many  years  previous  he 
had  had  his  hair  cut,  and  on  that  occasion  the  bar- 
ber had  found  a  whetstone  concealed  in  Luke's 
shock  of  tangled  hair.  It  was  also  asserted  that 
he  admitted  always  carrying  his  whetstone  back 
of  his  ear  while  mowing,  and  so  losing  it  that  way. 

All  the  news  and  every  happening  in  Riverton, 
from  the  catching  of  an  extra  big  trout  to  twins, 
was  duly  commented  upon  and  discussed  by  this 
coterie.  Village  politics,  how  much  money  each 
storekeeper  was  making,  crop  prospects,  the  run 
of  sap  every  spring,  drouth,  weather  indications, 
rain  or  snow  falls,  each  and  all  formed  rotating 
subjects  upon  which  every  one  of  this  faithful-to- 
the-post  clique  expressed  opinions. 

Chip's  arrival  there  with  the  Frisbie  family, 
and  her  later  history,  learned  from  Uncle  Joe, 
furnished  a  fertile  topic,  her  escapade  in  running 
away  from  Greenvale  a  more  exciting  one,  while 
Old  Cy's  visit  and  deposit  of  a  fabulous  sum  in 
the  bank  in  her  name  had  been  a  nine  days' 


400  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

wonder.  That  amount,  hinted  at  only  by  the 
cashier  as  a  comfortable  fortune,  soon  grew  in 
size  until  it  was  generally  believed  to  be  almost  a 
million. 

This  was  Riverton  and  its  decidedly  rural  status 
when  late  one  December  afternoon  the  Quaboag 
free  'bus  (a  two-seated  pung,  this  time)  swept  up 
to  that  hotel's  front  door,  where  the  porter  assisted 
a  stylish  young  lady  to  alight,  and  he,  stepping 
like  a  drum  major,  led  the  way  into  the  Quaboag's 
unwarmed  parlor. 

"Young  lady,  sir,  a  stunner,  wants  room  over 
night,  sir,"  he  announced  to  the  landlord  in  the 
office  a  moment  later.  "Goin'  to  Greenvale 
to-morrer,  she  says." 

On  the  instant  all  converse  in  the  office  ceased, 
and  the  six  constant  callers  hardly  breathed  until 
Sam  Gates  hastened  to  the  parlor  and  returned. 

"  It's  that  McGuire  gal  —  lady,  I  mean,"  he 
asserted  pompously;  then  to  the  porter,  "Git  a 
move  on,  Jim,  'n'  start  a  fire  in  Number  6,  an* 
quick,  too ! "  And  hastily  brushing  his  untidy 
hair  before  the  office  mirror,  he  left  the  room  again, 
followed  by  six  envious  glances.  Then  those  as- 
tonished loafers  grouped  themselves,  the  better 
to  observe  the  passage  between  parlor  and  office. 


VERA   RAYMOND  4<DI 

Only  one  instant  sight  of  this  important  guest 
was  obtained  by  them  as  Chip  emerged  from  the 
parlor  and  followed  the  landlord  upstairs,  and 
then  the  hushed  spell  was  broken. 

"  By  gosh,  it's  her ! "  exclaimed  one  in  an  awed 
whisper,  "an'  Jim  was  right,  she's  a  stunner!" 

"I  'member  jest  how  she  looked  that  fust  day 
she  came,"  asserted  another.  "Saw  her  legs,  too, 
when  she  shinned  up  top  o'  the  stage." 

"  Ye  won't  git  'nother  chance,  I'll  bet !  "  declared 
a  third. 

"What  do  ye  s'pose  she's  here  for,"  queried  a 
fourth,  "to  draw  the  int'rest  on  her  money,  or 
what?" 

It  was  precisely  four-forty-five  when  Chip  ap- 
peared before  this  judge  and  jury  of  all  Riverton's 
happenings.  At  five-forty-five  they  had  agreed 
that  she  was  the  handsomest  young  lady  who  had 
ever  set  foot  in  the  town,  that  she  must  be  going 
to  get  married  soon,  and  that  her  mission  there 
was  to  draw  out  a  few  thousand  dollars  for  wedding 
finery.  Then  they  dispersed,  and  at  six-forty-five, 
when  they  assembled  at  the  Quaboag  again,  half 
of  Riverton  knew  their  conclusions,  and  by  bed- 
time all  knew  them. 

By  eight-thirty  next  morning,  this  all-observant 


402  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

and  all-wise  clique  had  gathered  in  the  hotel  office 
once  more,  an  unusual  proceeding,  and  when 
Chip  tripped  out,  eight  pairs  of  eyes  watched  her 
depart.  Then  they  dispersed. 

At  nine  o'clock  Chip  walked  up  the  stone  steps 
to  the  bank  door,  read  the  legend,  "Open  from 
10  A.M.  until  2  P.M.,"  turned  away,  and  once  more 
resumed  her  leisurely  stroll  up  and  down  the 
street  while  she  peered  into  store  windows.  At 
ten  precisely  by  the  four  church  clocks  she  was 
back  at  the  bank  again,  and  the  cashier  lost  count 
of  the  column  he  was  adding  when  he  saw  her  enter. 

"I  would  like  three  hundred  dollars,  if  you 
please,  sir,"  she  said,  presenting  her  little  book, 
and  he  had  to  count  it  over  four  times,  to  make 
sure  the  amount  was  right.  Then  he  passed  the 
thick  bundle  of  currency  out  under  his  latticed 
window,  seeing  only  the  two  wide-open,  fathom- 
less eyes  and  dimpled  face  that  had  watched  him, 
and  feeling,  as  he  afterward  admitted,  like  fifty 
cents. 

And  now  ensued  an  experience  the  like  of  which 
poor  Chip  had  never  even  dreamed,  —  the  supreme 
joy  of  spending  money  without  stint  for  those  near 
and  dear  to  her.  And  what  a  medley  of  gifts  she 
bought!  Two  silk  dress  patterns,  two  warm 


VERA  RAYMOND  403 

wraps,  three  winter  hats,  a  gold  watch  for  Miss 
Phinney,  an  easy-chair,  two  of  the  finest  pipes 
she  could  find,  a  trout  rod,  four  pairs  of  gloves, 
and  finally  a  gun  for  Nezer.  Then  as  her  roll 
of  money  grew  less,  she  began  to  pick  up  smaller 
articles,  —  handkerchiefs,  slippers,  and  the  like. 

"Send  them  to  the  hotel,  please,"  she  said  to 
one  and  all  of  whom  she  purchased  articles  of  any 
size,  "marked  for  Vera  McGuire." 

That  was  enough ! 

Riverton  had  sensations,  mild  ones,  of  course. 
Now  and  then  a  fire  had  occurred,  once  an  elope- 
ment. Occasionally  a  horse  ran  away,  causing 
damage  to  some  one.  But  nothing  had  occurred  to 
compare  with  the  arrival  of  a  supposed  fabulously 
rich  young  lady  who  came  without  escort,  who 
walked  into  and  out  of  stores  like  a  young  goddess, 
noticing  no  one,  and  who  spent  money  as  if  it  were 
autumn  leaves. 

A  few  of  the  Quaboag  retinue  followed  her  about 
in  a  not-to-be-observed  manner.  Women  by  the 
dozen  hastily  donned  outdoor  raiment,  and  visited 
stores,  just  to  observe  her.  They  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  the  street  to  meet  her,  and  a  battery  of 
curious  eyes  was  focussed  on  her  for  two  hours. 

When  she  returned  to  the  hotel,  the  old  guard, 


404  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

recruited  by  every  idle  man  in  town,  filled  the  office, 
awaiting  her.  Uncle  Joe,  who  had  heard  of  her 
arrival  the  moment  he  came,  was  among  them,  re- 
counting her  history  once  more,  and  when  she  neared 
the  hotel,  he  emerged  to  meet  her. 

"Why,  bless  yer  eyes,  Chip,"  he  said,  extending  a 
calloused  hand,  "but  I'm  powerful  glad  to  see  ye 
once  more.  Whatever  made  ye  run  away  the  way 
ye  did,  'n'  what  be  ye  doin'  here?  Buyin'  out  the 
hull  town?  I've  got  the  pung  filled  wi'  bundles 
a'ready  wi'  yer  name  on  'em." 

He  beaued  her  into  the  parlor,  like  the  ancient 
gallant  he  was.  He  washed,  brushed  his  hair  and 
clothing,  and  awaited  her  readiness  to  dine,  without 
holding  further  converse  with  the  curious  crowd. 
He  ushered  her  into  the  dining  room  and  made  bold 
to  sit  and  eat  with  her  unasked,  and  when  he  assisted 
her  to  the  front  seat  in  his  long  box  sleigh,  crowded 
with  her  purchases,  and  drove  away,  he  was  envied 
by  two  dozen  observers. 

"Why  didn't  ye  send  us  word  o'  yer  comin', "  he 
said  as  they  left  Riverton,  "so  I  cud  'a'  spruced  up 
some  an'  come  down  with  a  better  rig,  bells  on  the 
hosses  and  new  buffi1  er  robes?" 

"There  was  no  need  of  that,"  answered  Chip, 
pleased,  as  well  she  might  be.  "I  am  just  the  same 


VERA  RAYMOND  405 

girl  that  I  always  was,  only  happier  now  that  I  have 
more  friends.  How  is  dear  old  Aunt  Comfort,  and 
every  one  in  Green  vale?  I  am  anticipating  seeing 
them  so  much." 

And  never  during  all  the  twenty  years  in  which 
Uncle  Joe  had  journeyed  twice  each  day  over  this 
road  had  the  way  seemed  shorter,  or  had  he  been 
blessed  with  a  more  interesting  companion. 

The  only  regret  Chip  had,  was  that  she  ,had  for- 
gotten to  buy  Uncle  Joe  a  present.  She  made  up  for 
it  later,  however. 

At  Greenvale,  Chip  met  almost  an  ovation.  Aunt 
Comfort  kissed  her  and  cried  over  her.  Nezer  ran 
for  Angie,  who  soon  appeared  on  the  scene,  and 
Hannah  was  so  "flustered"  she  was  unable  to  speak 
after  the  first  greeting.  Martin,  who  had  heard  of 
Chip's  arrival  from  Uncle  Joe,  hastened  to  Aunt 
Comfort's,  and  had  Chip  been  a  real "  millionnairess" 
or  some  titled  lady,  she  could  not  have  awakened 
more  interest  or  received  half  so  cordial  a  welcome. 

Hannah  was  the  one  who  felt  the  most  embar- 
rassed, however,  and  guilty  as  well.  For  half  an 
hour,  while  Chip  was  the  centre  of  interest,  she 
could  only  stare  at  her  in  dumb  amazement.  Then 
she  stole  out  of  the  room,  and  later  Chip  found  her 
in  the  kitchen,  shedding  copious  tears. 


406  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM5S   PLACE 

"I'm  a  miserable  sinner  'n'  the  Lord'll  never 
forgive  me,"  she  half  moaned,  when  Chip  tried  to 
console  her.  "An'  to  think  ye  feel  the  way  ye  say, 
'n'  to  bring  me  a  present,  arter  all  the  mean  things 
I  said.  It's  a-heapin'  coals  o'  fire  on  my  head,  that 
it  is."  And  the  shower  increased. 

"I  have  forgotten  all  about  them,  Hannah,  truly 
I  have,"  Chip  assured  her,  "and  I  wish  you  would. 
You  didn't  understand  me  then,  perhaps,  or  I  you, 
so  let  us  be  friends  now." 

The  next  afternoon  Chip,  who  had  learned  that 
Miss  Phinney's  school  was  to  close  the  day  following, 
set  out  to  call  on  her  in  time  to  arrive  at  its  adjourn- 
ment. 

No  hint  of  her  return  had  reached  Miss  Phinney, 
no  letters  had  been  exchanged,  and  not  since  that 
tearful  separation  had  they  met. 

And  now  as  Chip  followed  the  lonely  by-road  so 
often  traversed  by  her,  what  a  flood  of  bitter-sweet 
memories  returned, — each  bend,  each- tree,  each 
rock,  and  the  bridge  over  the  Mizzy  held  a  different 
recollection.  Here  at  this  turn  she  had  first  met 
Ray,  after  her  resolve  to  leave  Greenvale.  At  the 
next  landmark,  a  lane  crossing  the  meadows,  she 
had  always  parted  from  her  teacher,  the  last  time  in 
tears.  And  how  long,  long  ago  it  all  seemed ! 


VERA  RAYMOND  407 

Then  beyond,  and  barely  visible,  was  the  dear 
old  schoolhouse.  She  could  see  it  now,  half  hid  in 
the  bushes,  a  lone  and  lowly  little  brown  building 
outlined  on  the  winter  landscape  and  apparently 
dwarfed  in  size.  Once  it  had  awed  her;  now  it 
seemed  pathetic. 

The  last  of  its  pupils  were  vanishing  as  Chip  drew 
near,  and  inside,  and  as  lonely  as  that  lone  temple, 
Miss  Phinney  still  lingered. 

That  day  had  not  gone  well  with  her.  A  note  of 
complaint  had  come  from  one  parent  that  morning, 
and  news  that  a  dearly  loved  scholar  was  ill  as  well, 
and  Miss  Phinney's  own  life  seemed  like  the  fields 
just  now  —  cold,  desolate,  and  snow-covered. 

And  then  while  she,  thus  lone  and  lonesome,  was 
putting  away  books,  slates,  ink-bottles,  and  all  the 
badges  of  her  servitude,  Chip,  without  knocking, 
walked  in. 

How  they  first  exclaimed,  then  embraced,  then 
kissed,  and  then  repeated  it  while  each  tried  to  wink 
the  tears  away,  and  failed;  how  they  sat  hand  in 
hand  in  that  dingy,  smoke-browned  room  with  its 
knife-hacked  benches,  unconscious  of  the  chill, 
while  Chip  told  her  story;  and  how,  just  as  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  flashed  from  the  icicles 
along  its  eaves,  they  left  it,  still  hand  in  hand, 


408  THE   GIRL   FROM   TIM'S   PLACE 

was  but  an  episode  such  as  many  a  schoolgirl  can 
recall. 

Of  the  few  friends  Greenvale  held  for  Chip,  none 
seemed  quite  so  near,  and  dear  as  Miss  Phinney, 
and  none  lived  longer  in  her  memory.  They  had 
been  for  many  months  not  teacher  and  pupil,  but 
rather  two  sisters,  confiding,  patient,  and  tender. 
Life  swept  them  apart.  They  might  never  meet 
again,  and  yet,  so  long  as  both  lived,  never  would 
those  school  days  be  forgotten. 

With  Sunday  came  Chip's  most  gratifying  ex- 
perience, perhaps,  for  her  arrival  was  now  known 
by  the  entire  village  and  the  fact  that  she  was  an 
heiress  as  well.  Her  fortune  (also  known)  was 
considered  almost  fabulous  according  to  Green- 
vale  standards,  and  when  Chip  with  Angie  entered 
the  church  porch,  it  was  crowded  with  people 
waiting  to  receive  them.  Chip,  of  course,  now  well 
clad  and  well  poised,  was  once  more  the  cynosure 
of  all  eyes  except  when  the  pastor  prayed.  At  fbe 
close  of  service  a  score,  most  of  whom  she  knew  by 
sight  only,  waited  to  greet  her  and  shake  hands  with 
her  in  the  porch.  The  parson  hurried  down  the 
aisle  to  add  his  smile  and  hand  clasp,  and,  all  in  all, 
it  was  a  most  gratifying  reception. 

And  here  and  now,  let  no  carping  critic  say  it  was 


VERA   RAYMOND  4OO/ 

all  due  to  that  bank  account,  but  rather  a  country- 
town's  expression  of  respect  and  good- will  toward 
one  whom  they  felt  deserved  it. 

That  it  all  pleased  Angie,  goes  without  saying. 
That  Chip  well  deserved  this  vindication,  no  one 
will  question ;  and  when  her  visit  ended  and  she  de- 
parted, no  one,  not  even  Miss  Phinney,  missed  her 
more  than  Angie. 

Only  one  thread  of  regret  wove  itself  into  Chip's 
feelings  as  she  rode  away  with  Uncle  Joe,  whose 
horses  were  now  decked  properly  for  this  important 
event.  She  had  received  a  most  cordial  reception 
on  all  sides  —  almost  a  triumph  of  good- will.  Her 
gifts  had  brought  an  oft-repeated  chorus  of  thanks 
and  a  few  tears.  On  all  sides  and  among  all  she 
had  been  welcome,  even  receiving  a  call  and  words 
of  praise  from  Parson  Jones.  She  was  a  nobody  no 
longer;  instead,  a  somebody  whom  all  delighted  to 
honor  and  commend. 

But  the  one  whose  motherly  pride  would  have  been 
most  gratified,  she  for  whom  Chip's  heart  yearned 
for  oftenest,  would  never  know  it. 


CHAPTER  XL 

WITH  the  birds  and  flowers  once  more  returning 
to  Christmas  Cove,  came  outdoor  freedom  for  Chip 
again.  Like  the  wood-nymph  she  was  in  character 
and  taste,  the  wild,  rock-bound  coast  outside  and  the 
low,  wooded  mountain  enclosing  this  village  were 
her  playgrounds  where  she  found  companionship. 
Other  associates  she  cared  but  little  for,  and  a  few 
hours  alone  on  a  wave-washed  shore,  watching  the 
wild  ocean  billows  tossing  spray  aloft,  or  a  long 
ramble  in  a  deep,  silent  forest,  appealed  to  her  far 
more  than  parties  and  girlish  enjoyments. 

The  wood-bordered  road,  leading  from  the  village 
to  the  railroad  ten  miles  away,  was  now  a  favorite 
walk  of  hers.  It  was  suited  to  her  in  many  ways, 
for  it  was  seldom  travelled;  it  followed  the  sunny 
side  of  the  low  mountain  range  back  of  Christmas 
Cove,  not  a  house  stood  along  its  entire  way,  and  to 
add  charm,  a  brook  kept  it  company,  crossing  and 
recrossing  it  for  two  miles.  That  feature  was  the 
most  especial  attraction,  for  beds  of  watercress 
waved  beneath  the  limpid  waters  in  deep  pools, 

410 


VERA   RAYMOND  411 

bunches  of  flag  grew  along  its  banks,  their  blue 
flowers  bending  to  kiss  the  current;  its  ripples 
danced  in  the  sunlight;  its  music  was  a  tinkling 
melody,  and  these  simple  attractions  appealed  to 
Chip. 

There  was  also  another  reason  for  now  choosing 
this  byway  walk.  She  knew,  or  felt  sure,  that  Ray 
would  visit  Christmas  Cove  on  his  return  from  the 
woods.  He  must  come  in  the  old  carryall,  —  about 
the  only  vehicle  ever  journeying  along  this  road,  — 
and  now,  like  a  brownie  of  the  forest,  she  watched 
until  she  spied  it  afar  and  then  hid  in  the  bushes 
and  peeped  out  until  it  passed  each  day. 

A  curious  and  somewhat  complex  feeling  toward 
this  young  man  had  also  come  to  her.  At  first, 
like  a  child,  she  had  loved  him  unasked.  She  had 
known  no  different.  He  had  seemed  like  a  young 
god  to  her,  and  to  cling  to  him  was  supreme  happi- 
ness. Then  had  come  an  awakening,  a  conscious- 
ness that  this  freedom  was  not  right  and  must  be 
checked.  Following  that  also  —  a  bitter  lesson  — 
it  had  come  to  her  that  she  was  a  kind  of  outcast, 
a  child  of  shame,  as  it  were,  whose  origin  was  des- 
picable, and  who  was  dependent  upon  the  charity 
of  others.  This  awakening,  this  new  consciousness, 
was  like  a  black  chasm  in  front  of  her,  a  horror  and 


412  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

shame  combined,  and  true  to  her  nature,  she  fled 
from  it  like  one  pursued. 

But  two  years  had  changed  her  views  of  humanity. 
She  had  learned  that  money  and  social  position  did 
not  always  win  friends  and  respect.  That  birth  and 
ancestry  were  of  less  consideration  than  a  pure  mind 
and  honest  intentions,  and  that  fine  raiment  some- 
times covered  a  base  heart  and  vile  nature. 

Toward  this  boyish  lover,  also,  her  feelings  had 
been  altered.  A  little  of  the  old-time  fondness 
remained,  however.  She  could  not  put  that  away. 
She  had  tried  and  tried  earnestly,  yet  the  wildwood 
illusion  still  lingered.  She  had  meant,  also,  to  put 
him  and  herself  quite  apart  —  so  far,  and  in  such  a 
way,  that  she  would  never  be  found  by  him.  That 
had  failed,  however;  he  knew  where  she  was.  He 
had  said  that  he  was  coming  here.  Most  likely  he 
would  expect  to  renew  the  old  tender  relations ;  but  in 
that  he  would  be  disappointed.  She  was  sure  she 
would  be  glad  to  see  him  for  old  times'  sake,  however. 
She  would  be  gracious  and  dignified,  as  Aunt  Abby 
was.  She  wanted  to  hear  all  about  the  woods  and 
Old  Cy  again,  but  caresses  must  be  forbidden. 
More  than  that,  every  time  she  recalled  how  freely 
she  had  permitted  them  once,  she  blushed  and  felt 
that  it  would  be  an  effort  to  look  him  in  the  face  again. 


VERA  RAYMOND  413 

But  she  was  anxious  to  see  how  he  would  appear 
now :  whether  the  same  boy,  with  frank,  open  face, 
or  a  commanding,  self-possessed  man. 

And  so  each  pleasant  afternoon  she  strolled  up 
this  byway  road.  When  the  ancient  carryall  was 
sighted,  she  hid  and  watched  until  it  passed. 

But  Captain  Mix,  its  driver,  also  had  observing 
eyes.  He  knew  her  now  as  far  as  he  could  see  her, 
as  every  one  in  the  village  did,  and  he  soon  noticed 
her  unusual  conduct.  He  also  watched  along  the 
wayside  where  she  left  it,  and  slyly  observed  her 
peeping  out  from  some  thicket.  Just  why  this  odd 
proceeding  happened  time  and  again,  he  could  not 
guess,  and  not  until  a  strange  young  man  alighted 
from  the  train  one  day  and  asked  to  be  left  at  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Abby  Bemis,  did  it  dawn  on  him. 

Then  he  laughed.  "Friend  o'  Aunt  Abby,  I 
'spose?"  he  inquired  in  his  Yankee  fashion,  after 
they  had  started. 

"No,"  answered  Ray,  frankly,  "I  have  never  seen 
the  lady.  I  know  some  one  who  is  living  with  her, 
however.  A  Miss  Me  —  Raymond,  I  mean." 

Captain  Mix  glanced  at  him,  his  eyes  twinkling. 
"So  ye're  'quainted  with  Vera,  be  ye,"  he  responded. 
"Wai,  ye're  lucky."  Then  as  curiosity  grew  he 
added,  "Known  her  quite  a  spell,  hev  ye?" 


414  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

But  Ray  was  discreet.  "  Oh,  three  or  four  years," 
he  answered  nonchalantly.  "  I  knew  her  when  she 
lived  in  Greenvale."  Then  to  check  the  stage- 
driver's  curiosity,  he  added,  "  She  was  only  a  little 
girl,  then.  I  presume  she  has  changed  since." 

"She's  a  purty  good-lookin'  gal  now,"  asserted 
Captain  Mix,  "but  middlin'  odd  in  her  ways.  Not 
much  on  gallivantin'  round  wi'  young  folks,  but 
goin'  to  school  stiddy  'n'  roamin'  round  the  woods 
when  she  ain't.  Purty  big  gal  to  be  goin'  to  school 
she  is.  I  callate  her  arly  eddication  must  'a'  been 
sorter  neglected.  Mebbe  ye  know  'bout  it,"  and 
once  more  this  persistent  Yankee  glanced  at  his 
companion. 

But  Ray  was  too  loyal  to  the  little  girl  he  loved  to 
discuss  her  further,  and  made  no  answer.  Instead, 
he  began  inquiries  about  Christmas  Cove,  and  as 
they  jogged  on  mile  after  mile,  he  learned  all  that 
was  to  be  known  of  that  quiet  village.  When  they 
had  reached  a  point  some  three  miles  from  it,  a 
kindly  thought  came  to  the  driver. 

"If  Vera  ain't  'spectin'  ye,"  he  said,  "mebbe  ye'd 
like  to  s'prise  her.  If  so  be  it,  ye  kin.  She's  'most 
allus  out  this  way  'n',  curislike,  hides  'fore  I  get 
'long  whar  she  is.  If  I  see  her  to-day,  'n'  ye  want  to, 
I'll  drop  ye  clus  by  'n'  let  ye." 


VERA  RAYMOND  41$ 

And  so  it  came  to  pass. 

Chip,  as  usual,  had  followed  her  oft- taken  walk 
on  this  pleasant  May  afternoon.  When  the  carryall 
was  sighted  also,  as  usual,  she  had  hidden  herself. 
With  beating  heart  she  saw  two  occupants  this  time, 
and  looking  out  of  her  laurel  screen,  she  saw  that 
one  was  Ray. 

Then  she  crouched  lower.  The  moment  she  had 
waited  for  had  come. 

But  now  something  unexpected  happened,  for  after 
the  carryall  passed  her  hiding  spot,  Ray,  brown  and 
stalwart,  leaped  out.  The  carryall  drove  on,  and 
she  saw  him  returning  and  scanning  the  bushes. 

She  was  caught,  fairly  and  squarely.  One  in- 
stant she  hesitated,  then,  blushing  rose- red,  emerged 
from  the  undergrowth. 

And  now  came  another  capture,  for  with  a  "Chip, 
my  darling,"  Ray  sprang  forward,  and  although 
she  turned  away,  the  next  moment  she  was  clasped 
in  his  arms. 

In  vain  she  struggled.  In  vain  she  writhed  and 
twisted.  In  vain  she  pushed  him  away  and  then 
covered  her  blushing  face. 

Love,  fierce  and  eager,  could  not  be  thus  opposed. 
All  her  pride,  anger,  resentment,  shame,  and  intended 
coldness  were  as  so  many  straws,  for  despite  her 


416  THE  GIRL   FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

struggles,  he  pulled  her  hands  aside  and  kissed  her 
again  and  again. 

"My  darling,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "say  you 
forgive  me;  say  you  love  me;  say  it  now!  " 

Then,  as  she  drew  away,  he  saw  her  eyes  were 
brimming  with  tears. 

"I  won't,"  she  said,  "I  hate  —  "  but  his  lips  cut 
the  sentence  in  two,  and  it  was  never  finished. 

"I  did  mean  to  hate  you,"  she  declared  once  more, 
covering  her  face,  "but  I  —  I  can't." 

"  No,  you  can't,"  he  asserted  eagerly,  "for  I  won't 
let  you.  You  promised  to  love  me  once,  and  now 
you've  got  to,  for  life." 

And  she  did. 

When  the  outburst  of  emotion  had  subsided  and 
they  strolled  homeward,  Chip  glanced  shyly  up  at 
her  lover. 

"Why  did  you  pounce  on  me  so?"  she  queried; 
"why  didn't  you  ask  me,  first?" 

"My  dear,"  he  answered,  "a  wise  man  kisses  the 
girl  first,  and  asks  her  afterwards."  Then  he  re- 
peated the  offence. 

And  now  what  a  charming  summer  of  sweet  illu- 
sion and  castle-building  followed  for  the  lovers ! 
How  Aunt  Abby  smiled  benignly  upon  them,  quite 
content  to  accord  ample  chance  for  wooing !  How 


I  did  mean  to  hate  you,  but  I  —  I  can't." 


VERA   RAYMOND  417 

many  blissful,  dreamy  hours  they  passed  on  lonely 
wave- washed  cliffs,  while  the  marvel  of  love  was  dis- 
cussed !  How  its  wondrous  magic  opened  a  new 
world  whose  walks  were  flower-decked,  whose  sky 
was  ever  serene,  where  lilies  bloomed,  birds  sang, 
sea  winds  whispered  of  time  and  eternity,  and  where 
Chip  was  an  adored  queen !  How  all  the  shame  and 
humiliation  of  her  past  life  faded  away  and  joy 
supreme  entered  on  the  azure  and  golden  wings  of 
this  new  morning!  Even  Old  Cy  was  almost  for- 
gotten; the  spites,  Old  Tomah,  and  Tim's  Place 
quite  so ;  and  all  hope,  all  joy,  all  protection,  and  all 
her  future  centred  in  the  will  and  wishes  of  this 
Prince  Perfect. 

"Blind  and  foolish,"  I  hear  some  fair  critic  say. 
Yes,  more  than  that,  almost  idiotic ;  for  selfish  man 
never  pursues  unless  forced  to  do  so,  and  an  object 
of  worship  once  possessed,  is  but  a  summer  flower. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

"A  man'll  hev  all  the  friends  he  kin  keer  for  if  he  tends  to 
his  own  knittin'  work."  —  OLD  CY  WALKER. 

QUITE  different  from  the  meeting  of  the  lovers  was 
that  which  occurred  when  Old  Cy  reached  Peaceful 
Valley.  There  were  no  heroics,  no  falling  upon  one 
another's  necks,  no  tears.  Just  a  "Hullo,  Cyrus!" 
"Hullo,  Judson!"  as  these  two  brothers  clasped 
hands,  and  forty  years  were  bridged. 

Aunt  Mandy,  however,  showed  more  emotion,  for 
when  Old  Cy  rather  awkwardly  stooped  to  kiss  her, 
the  long  ago  of  Sister  Abby's  sorrow  welled  up  in  her 
heart,  and  the  tears  came. 

That  evening's  reunion,  with  its  two  life  his- 
tories to  be  exchanged,  did  not  close  until  the 
tall  clock  had  ticked  time  into  the  wee,  small  hours. 

All  of  Old  Cy's  almost  marvellous  adventures  had 
to  be  told  by  him,  and  not  the  least  interesting  were 
the  last  few  years  at  the  wilderness  home  of  the 
hermit.  Chip's  entry  into  it  and  her  history  formed 
another  chapter  fully  as  thrilling,  with  Uncle  Jud's 
rescue  of  her  for  a  denouement. 

418 


VERA  RAYMOND  419 

The  most  pathetic  feature  of  this  intermingled 
history  —  the  years  while  sweet  Abby  Grey  waited 
and  watched  for  her  lover  —  was  left  untold.  Only 
once  was  it  referred  to  by  Aunt  Mandy,  in  an  indirect 
way ;  but  the  quick  lowering  of  Old  Cy's  eyes  and  the 
shadow  that  overspread  his  face,  checked  her  at 
once.  Almost  intuitively  she  realized  its  unwisdom, 
and  that  it  was  a  sorrow  best  not  referred  to. 

Old  Cy  evidently  felt  it  a  subject  to  avoid,  and  not 
until  the  next  day  did  he  even  ask  how  Aunt  Abby 
looked  or  what  had  been  her  life  experiences.  A 
little  of  this  reticence  wore  away  in  due  time,  how- 
ever, and  then  Aunt  Mandy  once  more  referred  to 
her  sister. 

"I  kinder  feel  you  blame  Abby  somehow,  Cyrus, 
the  way  you  act,"  she  said,  "and  yet  thar  ain't  no 
cause  for  it.  She'd  waited  'most  seven  years.  We'd 
all  given  you  up  for  dead,  and  life  in  Christmas  Cove 
wa'n't  promisin'  much  for  Abby." 

"I  don't  blame  her  a  mite,"  Old  Cy  answered 
quickly,  "an'  no  need  o'  yer  thinkin'  so.  I  don't 
blame  no  woman  fer  makin'  the  best  shift  they  kin. 
They've  got  to  hev  a  home  'n'  pertecter,  bless  'em, 
or  be  nobody  in  this  world.  Comin'  here  and  findin' 
how  things  are,  sorter  makes  me  realize  how  much 
I've  missed  in  life,  though,  an'  how  much  sorrer  I've 


42O  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

had  to  outgrow.  I  don't  lay  up  nothin'  'gainst 
Abby,  not  fer  a  minit.  Only  I  hated  to  hev  ye  tell 
me  what  I  knew  ye'd  hev  to,  that  fust  night." 

"But  you're  goin'  to  see  her,  ain't  ye,  Cyrus?" 
Aunt  Mandy  asked  anxiously.  "Ye  won't  shame 
her  by  not  goin',  will  ye?" 

"Wai,  mebbe,"  he  answered  slowly,  and  after  a 
long  pause.  "I  wouldn't  want  to  hurt  her  knowin'ly. 
I  callate  I've  done  more  grievin'n  she  has,  though, 
ten  times  over,  an'  seem'  her  now's  a  good  deal  like 
openin'  an  old  tomb  —  a  sorter  invitin'  ghosts  o* 
old  heartaches  to  step  out.  Abby's  outgrowed  the 
old  times,  'n'  I'm  sartin,  too,  won't  be  the  happier 
by  seein'  me  ag'in.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I've  a  notion 
she'll  sorter  hate  to  see  me.  'Twas  to  keep  her  from 
feelin'  'shamed  'n'  miserable  'n'  spoilin'  her  life,  I've 
never  let  her  nor  nobody  that  knew  her  find  out  I 
was  alive.  I'm  doubtin'  I  would  now  if  she  hadn't 
larned  it  from  Chip." 

He  relented  a  little  from  this  strange  and  almost 
cruel  whim  a  week  later,  and  after  visiting  the  Riggs- 
ville  store  and  obtaining  what  really  amounted  to  a 
disguise  in  new  garments,  he  announced  his  plans. 

"I've  got  to  see  Chip,"  he  said,  "an'  see  how  she 
'n'  Ray's  gittin'  on.  I've  got  to  see  Abby,  I  s'pose. 
I  want  to,  an'  I  don't  want  to,  both  in  one.  Then 


VERA   RAYMOND  421 

ag'in,  these  two  young  folks  —  Chip  'n'  the  boy  — 
hev  sorter  got  tangled  up  in  my  feelin's,  'n'  I  can't 
rest  content  till  I've  seen  'em  settled  in  life.  I'm 
goin'  to  Christmas  Cove  fer  a  day.  Then  back  here 
till  they  hitch  up,  'n'  then  —  wal,  then  mebbe  I'd 
better  go  to  the  woods  ag'in.  I  ain't  fitted  by  natur 
fer  dressed-up  folks." 

No  opposition  to  this  unseemly  outcome  was 
made  by  Uncle  Jud  or  Aunt  Mandy.  They  knew, 
or  hoped,  the  leaven  of  bygone  memories  and  asso- 
ciation would  change  the  hermit-like  impulse  of  Old 
Cy,  and  all  in  good  time  a  better  ending  of  his  life 
would  seem  possible  to  him.  To  argue  it  now  was 
apparently  useless.  A  man  so  set  in  his  ideas  as  to 
remain  a  homeless  wanderer  for  almost  a  lifetime,  was 
not  to  be  changed  in  a  month,  or  perhaps  in  a  year. 

Neither  did  Old  Cy  seem  in  a  hurry  to  visit  Christ- 
mas Cove. 

"I  don't  look  nat'ral  or  feel  nat'ral  in  them  new 
clothes,"  he  said  to  Aunt  Mandy  one  day,  "an* 
while  I  want  to  see  Abby,  I've  lived  in  the  woods  so 
long  I'm  sorter  'shamed  to  go  'mongst  respectable 
people.  Then  I  look  like  one  o'  them  wooden  men 
dressed  up  in  a  store  winder  with  that  new  rig  on,  an' 
jest  know  folks'll  all  be  laughin'  at  me.  I've  got  to 
go,  I  callate,  but  I'd  like  to  make  the  trip  in  a  cage. 


422  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S   PLACE 

I'm  sartin  sure  Abby'll  laugh  at  me  arterwards." 
From  which  it  may  be  seen  how  hard  it  was  for 
Old  Cy  to  fit  himself  into  civilized  life  once  more. 

He  nerved  himself  for  the  trip  to  Christmas  Cove 
in  a  few  days,  however,  and  how  he  met  and  renewed 
acquaintance  with  his  old-time  sweetheart  shall  be 
told  in  his  own  words. 

"  Abby  hain't  changed  near  so  much  as  I  callated," 
he  said  on  his  return ;  "a  leetle  fuller  in  figger,  but 
jest  the  same  easy-spoken,  sweet  sorter  woman  I 
always  knew  she'd  be.  She  was  'lone  when  I  called, 
an'  fer  a  minit  arter  we  shook  hands  neither  on  us 
could  speak  ag'in.  Then  she  kinder  bit  her  lip  V 
swallered  her  feelin's,  keepin'  her  face  turned  away, 
an'  then  we  sot  down  'n'  begun  talkin'.  It  was 
techin',  too,  the  way  she  acted,  fer  she  kept  tryiri*  to 
smile,  'n'  all  the  while  the  tears  kept  startin'.  It 
was  like  one  o'  them  summer  days  when  the  rain 
patters  while  the  sun  is  shinin'.  I  don't  think  she 
noticed  my  clothes  much,  either,  an'  we  sot  up  till 
'most  midnight  talkin'  over  old  times.  It  all  turned 
out  'bout  the  way  I  'spected  —  a  sorter  funeral  o' 
old  hopes  with  us  two  fer  mourners.  She's  powerful 
considerate,  too,  Abby  is,  for  all  the  time  we  was 
talkin'  she  never  once  spoke  o'  Cap'n  Bemis,  'n'  I 
didn't.  It  was  jest  ez  if  we  started  in  whar  we  left 


VERA  RAYMOND  423 

off,  'n'  skippin'  the  gap  between.  She  'lowed  she 
hoped  she'd  see  me  soon  ag'in,  that  she  felt  like  a 
mother  to  Chip;  an'  when  I  bid  her  good-bye,  she 
kinder  choked  once  more. 

"I  didn't  see  much  o'  Chip,  either,  which  sorter 
hurt  me.  Take  it  all  in  all,  my  visit  thar  upsot  me 
more'n  I  callated,  'n'  I  guess  when  Chip's  settled, 
I'd  best  go  to  the  woods  'n'  forgit  all  that's  past. 
My  life's  been  a  failure,  anyway." 

And  Old  Cy  was  right ;  but  it  was  grim  and  merci- 
less Fate  that  made  it  so,  and  for  that  he  was  not 
responsible. 

Love  in  youth  is  a  sweet  song  of  joy  and  hope  and 
promise.  But  love  that  spans  a  lifetime,  that 
reaches  and  caresses  our  heartstrings  once  again  as 
we  enter  the  final  shadows,  has  only  the  pathos  of 
parting  and  the  tender  chords  of  almost  forgotten 
melodies  in  it.  Vainly  do  we  strive  to  enter  the  en- 
chanted garden  once  more.  Vainly  do  our  heart 
throbs  beat  against  its  adamant  walls.  Vainly  do 
we  hope  to  catch  just  one  more  of  the  old  bygone 
thrills.  It  is  useless,  for  none  can  live  life  over,  and 
once  age  has  locked  the  portals  of  youth  and  fervor, 
they  are  never  opened  again. . 


CHAPTER  XLII 

WITH  September  came  a  supreme  event  in  the 
lives  of  Chip  and  Ray,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frisbie, 
Aunt  Comfort,  Miss  Phinney  and  Hannah,  Uncle 
Jud  and  Aunt  Mandy,  and  Old  Cy,  all  gathered  in 
Aunt  Abby's  quaint  parlor  to  see  her  aged  pastor 
join  their  hands  and  lives.  Then  came  the  kisses, 
the  congratulations,  the  rice,  and  old-shoe  throwing, 
and  then  solitude  and  tears  for  Aunt  Abby.  All 
the  wedding  guests  except  Old  Cy  hied  them- 
selves away  with  the  new  pair,  and  he  left  for 
Bayport. 

And  thus  closes  the  history  of  Chip  McGuire,  waif 
of  the  wilderness  and  slave  of  Tim's  Place. 

Bless  her ! 

Two  days  later  Old  Cy  returned. 

No  one  was  in  the  house  when  he  knocked  at  Aunt 
Abby's  door,  and  then,  led  perhaps  by  the  invisible 
chord  that  spanned  forty  years,  he  slowly  strolled 
up  the  path  beside  the  old  mill-pond,  which  he  and 
she  had  often  followed  in  the  old,  old  days. 

His  heart  had  led  him  aright,  for  there,  at  the  foot 
424 


VERA  RAYMOND  425 

of  the  ancient  oak  that  had  once  been  their  trysting- 
place,  she  sat. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  over  V  bid  ye  good-bye, 
Abby, "  he  said  gently,  as  she  arose  to  meet  him. 
"I've  been  doin'  a  good  deal  o'  biddin'  good-bye 
to-day.  I  bid  good-bye  to  the  old  graveyard  whar 
my  folks  is ;  it's  all  growed  up  to  weeds  'n'  bushes, 
I'm  sorry  to  say.  But  that  can't  be  helped.  It's 
the  way  o'  natur.  I've  been  down  to  the  p'int  whar 
you  'n'  I  used  to  go,  an'  I  bid  that  good-bye,"  he 
added,  seating  himself  near  her.  "Ye  'member  it, 
don't  ye,  Abby,  'n'  them  days  when  we  went  thar  to 
watch  the  waves?" 

"I  do,  Cyrus,"  she  answered,  her  voice  trembling. 
"I  remember  all  the  old  days  only  too  well." 

"They  all  come  back  to  me,  too,"  he  continued  in 
a  lower  tone,  "an'  I  wish  I  could  skip  back  to  'em, 
but  I  can't.  I'm  an  old  man  now,  an'  no  use  to 
nobody,  'n'  not  much  to  myself.  I've  been  a  wan- 
derer many  years  —  ye  know  why,  Abby.  I've  had 
a  short  spell  o'  joy,  kinder  helpin'  this  boy  'n'  gal 
into  sunshine  'n'  a  home.  They've  gone  their  way 
now  'n'  sure  to  forgit  me  an'  you.  It's  nat'ral  they 
should,  'n'  all  that's  left  me  is  to  go  back  to  the 
woods  'n'  stay." 

He  paused  a  moment,  glancing  up  the  narrow 


426  THE  GIRL  FROM  TIM'S  PLACE 

pond  to  where  it  ended  in  shadow,  and  then  con- 
tinued: "It's  curis,  Abby,  how  life  begins  with 
how-de-do's  'n'  smilin'  friends  'n'  cheerin'  pros- 
pects, 'n'  then  ends  with  good-byes  'n'  bein'  forgot. 
It's  what  we  must  callate  on,  though,  an'  a  good  deal 
like  a  graveyard  is  left  to  weeds  'n'  bushes." 

Once  more  he  paused,  closed  his  eyes,  and  re- 
mained silent  for  a  time. 

"Wai,  I  might  as  well  be  goin',"  he  said  finally, 
rising  and  extending  his  hand,  "so  good-bye,  Abby. 
I  wish  ye  well  in  life." 

"But  is  there  any  need  of  it?"  she  answered, 
turning  her  face  to  hide  the  tears  as  his  hand  clasped 
hers. 

"Why,  no,  only  to  fergit  my  sorrer,"  he  answered; 
"I  can't  do  it  here." 

"  But  who  will  care  for  you  there  —  at  last  —  and 
—  must  you  go  ?"  Then  she  turned  to  him  again. 

And  then  he  saw,  not  the  gentle,  saddened  face 
upraised  to  his,  but  the  tender  face  of  sweet  Abby 
Grey  of  the  long,  long  ago. 

"  Must  you  leave  us  —  me  ?  "  she  whispered  once 
again. 

"Wai,  mebbe  not,"  he  answered. 

THE  END 


NEW  POPULAR  EDITIONS  OF 

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THE  SEA  WOLF  :     Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

"  This  story  surely  has  the  pure  Stevenson  ring,  the  adven- 
turous glamour,  the  vertebrate  stoicism.  'Tis  surely  the  story 
of  the  making  of  a  man,  the  sculptor  being  Captain  Larsen, 
and  the  clay,  the  ease-loving,  well-to-do,  half-drowned  man, 
to  all  appearances  his  helpless  prey." — Critic. 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS : 

A  vivid  and  intensely  interesting  picture  of  life,  as  the  au- 
thor found  it,  in  the  slums  of  London.  Not  a  survey  of  im-> 
pressions  formed  on  a  slumming  tour,  but  a  most  graphic  a»,- 
count  of  real  life  from  one  who  succeeded  in  getting  on  the 
"inside."  More  absorbing  than  a  novel.  A  great  and  vital 
book.  Profusely  illustrated  from  photographs. 

THE  SON  OF  THE  WOLF : 

"  Even  the  most  listless  reader  will  be  stirred  by  the  virile 
force,  the  strong,  sweeping  strokes  with  which  the  pictures  of 
the  northern  wilds  and  the  life  therein  are  painted,  and  the  in- 
sight given  into  the  soul  of  the  primitive  of  nature." — Plain 
Dealer,  Cleveland. 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SNOWS  : 

It  is  a  book  about  a  woman,  whose  personality  and  plan  in 
the  story  are  likely  to  win  for  her  a  host  of  admirers.  The 
story  has  the  rapid  movement,  incident  and  romantic  flavor 
which  have  interested  so  many  in  his  tales.  The  illustrations 
are  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

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its  evident  realism  and  truth  to  life  and  conditions  have 
gained  for  it  the  title  of  "  The  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin '  of 
the  Twentieth  Century." 

"  I  should  be  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  tell  how  it  affects 
me.  It  is  a  great  work  ;  so  simple,  so  true,  so  tragic,  so 
human." — David  Graham  Phillips. 

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NEW   POPULAR   PRICED  EDITIONS  OF  IM- 

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SOCIAL  EVOLUTION, 

PRINCIPLES   OF  WESTERN  CIVILISATION. 

Two  volumes  of  special  interest  and  importance,  £;.• 
view  of  the  social  unrest  of  the  present  time. 

HENRY  GEORGE,  JR. 

THE   MENACE   OF  PRIVILEGE. 

A  study  of  the  dangers  to  the  Republic  from  the  exist- 
ence of  a  favored  class. 

ROBERT  HUNTER, 

POVERTY. 

An  exhaustive  study  of  present  day  conditions  among 
tKe  poorer  classes. 

JAMES  BRYCE, 

SOCIAL   INSTITUTIONS   OF   THE  UNITED   STATES. 

The  author's  recent  appointment  as  the  representative 
of  the  British  Empire  at  Washington  will  lend  additional 
interest  to  this  timely  and  important  work. 

RICHARD  T.  ELY, 

MONOPOLIES   AND   TRUSTS. 

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most  eminent  authority. 

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GARDEN  MAKING,  by  PROFESSOR  L.  H.  BAILEY, 
Professor  of  Horticulture,  Cornell  University. 
Suggestions    for   the    Utilizing    of     Home 
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"  little  place  "  in  the  country.      Written  by  the  Professor  of 
Horticulture  at  Cornell  University  it  tells  of  ornamental  gar- 
dening of  any  range,  treats  of  fruits  and  vegetables  for  home 
use,  and  cannot  fail  to  instruct,  inspire  and  educate  the  reader. 

THE  PRACTICAL  GARDEN  BOOK,   by  C.  E, 
HUNN  AND  L.  H.  BAILEY. 

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betically, like  a  minature  encyclopedia,  it  has  articles  on  the 
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A.  WOMAN'S   HARDY    GARDEN,    by  HELENA 
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garden  by  Prof.  C.  F.  Chandler.    1 2  mo. ,  cloth. 
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primal  instinct,  coming  down  through  generation  after  genera- 
tion from  the  first  man  who  was  put  into  a  garden  "  to  dress  it 
and  keep  it."     The  instructions  as  to  planting,  maintenance, 
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color  and  a  delightful  love-story.  The  scene  of  the  story  is 
Wallaria,  one  of  those  mythical  kingdoms  in  Southern  Europe. 
Maritza  is  the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne,  but  is  kept  away  from 
her  own  country.  The  hero  is  a  young  Englishman  of  noble 
family.  It  is  a  pleasing  book  of  fiction.  Large  12  mo.  size. 
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be  absolutely  penniless  at  that  time,  and  yet  have  spent  the 
million  in  a  way  that  will  commend  him  as  fit  to  inherit  the 
larger  sum.  How  he  does  it  forms  the  basis  for  one  of  the 
most  crisp  and  breezy  romances  of  recent  years. 
CASTLE  CRANEYCROW 

The  story  revolves  around  the  abduction  of  a  voung  Ameri- 
can woman  and  the  adventures  created  through  her  rescue. 
The  title  is  taken  from  the  name  of  an  old  castle  on  the  Con- 
tinent, the  scene  of  her  imprisonment. 

GRAUSTARK:  A  Story  of  a  Love  Behind  a  Throne. 

This  work  has  been  and  is  to -day  one  of  the  most  popular 
works  of  fiction  of  this  decade.  The  meeting  of  the  Princess 
of  Graustark  with  the  hero,  while  travelling  incognito  in  this 
country,  his  efforts  to  find  her,  his  success,  the  defeat  of  con- 
spiracies to  dethrone  her,  and  their  happy  marriage,  provide 
entertainment  which  every  type  of  reader  will  enjoy. 

THE  SHERRODS.  With  illustrations  byC.  D.Williams 
A  novel  quite  unlike  Mr.  McCutcheon's  previous  works  in 
ihe  field  of  romantic  fiction  and  yet  possessing  the  charm  in- 
separable from  anything  he  writes.  The  scene  is  laid  in  In- 
diana and  the  theme  is  best  described  in  the  words,  "Whom 
God  hath  joined,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Each  volume  handsomely  bound  in  cloth.  Large  lamo.  size. 
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UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN— By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

A  new  edition,  printed  from  entirely  new  plates,  on  fine  laid  paper 
of  extra  quality,  with  half-tone  illustrations  by  Louis  Betts. 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS— By  John  Bunyan. 

A  new  edition  of  Bunyan's  Immortal  allegory,  printed  from  new 
plates  on  fine  laid  paper,  with  illustrations  by  H.  M.  Brock. 

THE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD— By  Susan  Warner. 

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THE  LITTLE  MINISTER  (Maude  Adams  Edition) 
— By  J.  M.  Barrie. 

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PROSE  TALES— By  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

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Containing  eleven  striking  drawings  by  Alice  B.  Woodward,  a  biog- 
raphy of  the  author,  a  bibliography  of  the  Tales,  and  comprehensive 
notes.  The  best  edition  ever  published  in  a  single  volume. 

ISHMAEL  >  By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth. 

SELF-RAISED       )   The  two  vols.  in  a  flat  box,  or  boxed  separately 
Handtome  new  editions  of  these  two  old  favorites,  with  illustrations 
by  Clare  Angell 

THE  FIRST  VIOLIN— By  Jessie  Fothergill. 

A  fine  edition  of  this  popular  musical   novel,  with  illustrations  by 

Clare  Angell. 

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Henry  Sandham,  George  Wharton  Edwards,  W.  H. 
Drake,  Harry  Fenn,  and  Wm.  Hamilton  Gibson.  Un- 
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tew  writers  of  recent  years  have  achieved  such  a  wida 
popularity  in  this  particular  field  as  has  Mr.  Marchmont. 
For  rattling  good  stories  of  love,  intrigue,  adventure, 
plots  and  counter-plots,  we  know  of  nothing  better,  and 
to  the  reader  who  has  become  surfeited  with  the  analyti- 
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BY  RIGHT  OF  SWORD 

With  illustrations  by  POWELL  CHAIB. 

A  DASH  FOR  A  THRONE 

With  illustrations  by  D.  MURRAY  SMITH. 

MISER  HOADLEY'S  SECRET 

With  illustrations  by  CLARE  ANGELU 

THE  PRICE  OF  FREEDOM      , 

With  illustrations  by  CLARK  ANGBU. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  PERIL 

With  illustrations  by  EDITH  LESLIE  LAN** 
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uniform  in  style. 
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No  Field  Collection    is  Complete 
Without  this  Book 

A    LITTLE    BOOK    of 
TRIBUNE     VERSE 

By  EUGENE  FIELD 

Compiled  and  edited  by  JOSEPH  G.  BROWN,  formerly 
city  editor  of  the  Denver  Tribune,  and  an  intimate  friend 
and  associate  of  the  poet  during  the  several  years  in  which 
he  was  on  the  staff  of  that  paper. 

This  volume  resurrects  a  literary  treasure  which  has 
been  buried  for  many  years  in  the  forgotten  files  of  a 
newspaper,  and  it  is,  as  nearly  as  it  has  been  possible  to 
make,  an  absolutely  complete  collection  of  the  hitherto 
unpublished  poems  of  the  gifted  author. 

These  poems  are  the  early  product  of  Field's  genius. 
They  breathe  the  spirit  of  Western  life  of  twenty  years  ago. 
The  reckless  cowboy,  the  bucking  broncho,  the  hardy 
miner,  the  English  tenderfoot,  the  coquettish  belle,  and  all 
the  foibles  and  extravagances  of  Western  social  life,  are  de- 
picted with  a  naivete  and  satire,  tempered  with  sym- 
y>athy  and  pathos,  which  no  other  writer  could  imitate. 

The  book  contains    nearly   three   hundred  pages,   in- 
cluding an  interesting    and  valuable  introduction  by  the 
editor,  and  is  printed  from  new  type  on  fine  deckle  edge 
paper,  and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth,  with  gilt  tops. 
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WORKS  OF 

F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 

izmo,  Cloth,  each  75  cents,  postpaid 

VIA  CRUCIS  :  A  Romance  of  the  Second  Crusade. 

Illustrated  by  Louis  Loeb. 

Mr.  Crawford  has  manifestly  brought  his  best  qualities 
os  a  student  of  history,  and  his  finest  resource*  as  a  master 
af  an  original  and  picturesque  style,  to  bear  upon  this  story. 

MR.  ISAACS  :  A  Tale  of  Modem  India. 

Under  an  unpretentious  title  we  have  here  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  novels  that  has  been  given  to  the  world. 

THE  HEART  OF  ROME. 

The  legend  of  a  buried  treasure  under  the  trails  of  the 
palace  of  Conri,  known  to  but  few,  provides  the  frame- 
work for  many  exciting  incidents. 

SARACINESCA 

A  graphic  picture  of  Roman  society  in  ths  last  u«/«  of 
the  Pope's  temporal  power. 

SANT*  ILARIO  ;  A  Sequel  to  Saracinesou 

A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story,  fulfilling  every 
requirement  of  artistic  fiction. 

IN  THE  PALACE  OF  THE  KING :  A  Love  Story 

of  Old  Madrid.     Illustrated. 

The  imaginative  richness,  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of 
plot,  and  the  charm  of  romantic  environment,  rank  this 
novel  among  the  great  creations. 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP,    NEW  YORK 


BY 

LOUIS    TRACY 

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Books  that  make  the  nerves  tingle — romance   and  ad- 
venture of  the  best  type — wholesome   for  family  reading 


THE  PILLAR  OF  LIGHT 

«'  Breathless  interest  is  a  hackneyed  phrase,  but  every 
reader  of  «  The  Pillar  of  Light  '  who  has  red  biood  in 
his  or  her  veins,  will  agree  that  the  trite  saying  applies  to 
the  attention  which  this  story  commands. — New  York  Sun. 

THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

**  Here  is  a  story  filled  with  the  swing  of  adventure, 
There  are  no  dragging  intervals  in  this  volume  :  from  the 
moment  of  their  landing  on  the  island  until  the  rescuing 
crew  find  them  there,  there  is  not  a  dull  moment  for  the 
young  people — nor  for  the  reader  either." — Neto  York 
Times. 

THE  KING  OF  DIAMONDS 

««  Verily,  Mr.  Tracy  is  a  prince  of  story-tellers.  His 
charm  ii  a  little  hard  to  describe,  but  it  is  as  definite  as 
that  of  a  rainbow.  The  reader  is  carried  along  by  the 
robust  imagination  of  the  author. — San  Francisco  Exam- 
iner. 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGION, 


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